Seriously, her life should be a soap opera

It was over; she knew it and embraced it and could feel the joy bubbling up from her very soul that she was So. Through. With. Him.
Still, like at the end of all relationships, there was leftover baggage to be dealt with – in this case literally. She had no reason to hold on to his shirt although a good friend had suggested she burn it while laughing maniacally and chanting a death hex. She nixed the Hocus Pocus scene early on.
No, she would be civil and see him face to face one last time. She wanted it, anyway, that thing called “closure” that so many women claim to need after the demise of any relationship. Well, at least meeting him at the airport this way she would be forced to employ the KISS method – Keep It Short and Sweet.
And so, she called him. He agreed to meet her on the jetbridge minutes before her flight was to depart. His voice was syrupy sweet when he gently intoned, “Yeah, I really wanna see you.” She bit her tongue against a sharp remark, merely saying, see you soon, as she hung up.
She waited anxiously, her hands shaking and her pulse pounding in her throat. She hadn’t seen him since his plethora of lies she had been unknowingly wallowing in became frighteningly apparent and she had cut him off cold turkey a week ago. And then, there he was, his face freshly shaven for which she allowed herself a moment’s lust. No more. He pulled her into a hug and lowered his nose to her neck, softly inhaling her skin.
“You smell good,” he murmured.
“Yeah, and you smell like sweat and fuel,” she quickly dissed him. She hoped he hadn’t seen the flush rise on her neck when he purposely leaned in to tease her. Damn her hormones!
“Sorry,” he said, looking pained at her flippant reaction. “So, what did you bring me?”
He sifted through the contents of the bag trying to joke with her as she stoically stood by.
“So, when are we hanging out?” he said with a slight grin.
“We’re not.”
His face fell.
“Why not?”
She balked at his audacity. Oh, I don’t know, she wanted to scream at him, maybe just the fact that I have NO idea who are you because you have lied to me for the past three months about everything, including the fact that you’ve been sleeping with a girl who you swore was a mere friend. If it weren’t for a good friend who let me in on your deception with a warning to RUN far away, I may still be believing your bullshit!
Instead, she merely looked him dead in the eye and said, "You know why."
He kept her gaze a moment more before conceding.
"I know," he said quietly, as his gaze moved to stare at his shuffling feet.
"Well, but we can still be friends, right?" he queried hopefully, lifting his woeful eyes to hers.
She smiled inside, so proud of her strength - a week earlier and that puppy dog act might have leashed her, no pun intended.
"No...no, we can't."
He studied her one last time. "Give me a call sometime, okay?"
She almost felt bad for him. Almost.
"Nope," she said sweetly, lifting her hand into a wave as she turned her back on him and didn't once glance over her shoulder as she reboarded the plane to California.

Soon she came to find out that quite a different version of what happened was being perpetuated to many a soul. Wong called, the same friend who had warned her of Julian's compulsive lying in the first place, to tell her he'd heard something interesting.
When Julian had returned to the break room at work sporting the bag she'd returned his junk in, Wong questioned its contents.
"Ah, Ali was just giving me my stuff back...man, I just had to tell her to stop calling me and shit. I told her I was banging Ambretta now, so she just needs to move on. I said she could give me a call sometime but if she does I'm just gonna ignore her. She just needs to get over me."
As Wong related this treacherous account, Ali could hardly breathe.
"H-he said that? But it isn't true!" she sputtered, hurriedly telling Wong what really happened.
"I know, Ali, because I know you and I know him and I knew the entire time that it was just another of his lies. See, it's amazing the stuff he makes up."
She hung up the phone and stared blankly at the wall wondering if there were any cure for a disease such as his. She couldn't fathom his behavior. Of course she had lied in her lifetime but never to the extent of creating bogus stories which even the most gullible find hard to believe.

Later in the night she was gathering her things to switch from one plane to another in Atlanta before she finished her day with a flight to New York. Since finding out he had been with another flight attendant she'd had a sinking feeling that she would see them together in the airport...she just didn't bet on it being so soon. As she walked across the floor to the adjacent gate where she would be awaiting the arrival of her flight, she glimpsed the back of someone's head, a set of familiar raven locks, eerily similar to the first day she'd ever seen him. She turned her gaze more fully toward where he sat facing away from her, her eyes widening as she saw it was indeed him. With HER.
She felt hot and cold at the same time, the edges of her vision tunneling so that she had to grab the handle of her suitcase to steady herself. She turned around to block them from her sight, clutching her stomach as she mentally studied her options.
1) Charge at them both in Mel Gibson "Braveheart" fashion, declaring them traitors to love and demanding their heads in reparation.
2) The death hex she'd earlier decided against seemed a good idea at the moment, but unfortunately she'd left her spell book at home
3) She DID have connections to higher places in the company and dirt on both parties so why not just have both their jobs this very moment?

But no, she couldn't stand there pretending she could do anything but go over there, it was her gate and her crew and dammit, she would NOT run away. She was the stronger woman, the better person here and she would not stoop to his level. Lifting her chin and clenching her jaw against the molten anger that raced through her blood, and walked past where they sat, passing right in front of them both, vaguely registering through the haze of her emotions that they were basically canoodling, right there, in uniform, in front of countless passengers.
Brazen hussy. Pathetically, she expected as much from him.
She watched in guilty pleasure as his jaw hit the floor upon seeing her.
"Hi Julian!" she waved.
"Uh hey! Uh, what- what are you doing here?"
Hmmm...flight attendant, suitcase, planes, airport. She felt like saying, "Oh, I'm preparing for the synchronized swimming competition at the Olympics."
Ugh, he was such an incompetent fink.
"My flight leaves from this gate." DUH.
And she kept walking. Afterwards she realized she'd never even made eye contact with Ambretta. As she sat far away from the soap opera right in front her eyes, she reached with shaking hands to call her friend. She noticed with a sigh that he was doing his best to turn completely in his seat so that his back was to her and conveniently blocking her view of Ambretta and vice versa.

Two days later she finally had to send him the "it's over, we aren't friends anymore" cliche text because he was determined to have his cake and eat it too by sweet "texting" his way back in. She would have none of it and stonily ignored his embellished adjectives, knowing that she couldn't really believe anything he ever said, then and now.
Well, at least it was over. The drama couldn't get much worse. Oh, of course there was a possibility that this girl might fly on a trip with her, but she reasoned the chances were slim with over 2,000 flight attendants in the company.
Still, one chance in a million is still a chance.
She isn't quite sure how she will react if she is unlucky enough to win such a lottery...but she can be sure it will create quite a magnificent story.
And like any decent writer, that gives her a smug satisfaction.
;-)

A Rose By Any Other Name

"So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title."

The End is nigh.
Ah, once upon a time I referred to him as Romeo...now, however, I realize that such a name could never be applied to one such as he, for Romeo at least lived and died for True Love.
Nay, I would now deem him a Casanova who was, of course, a libertine usurped by venereal disease.
Not that I'm implying anything. ;-)

Five Yards Equals A First Down...Right?

Yes, I honestly used to believe that it was an accumulation of five yards on that green turf that equaled a first down. Of course, that was a few months after I actually understood what a "down" WAS. I'm not sure how the daughter of a head football coach manages to be so unaware of seemingly simple rules. Perhaps it stems from the day when I was six years old and caught in the middle of an eighth-grade boys' basketball scrimmage. Needless to say I had a knot on the top of my head where the orange ball almost twice my size pummeled me when the game got a little rougher than I expected. Ever since that incident I've been a little standoffish to things concerning balls. Take that how you will.
Below I've related a few funny stories about my "blond moments," I suppose, concerning my least favorite subject next to math - sports.

Nothing makes a girl hunt for a conversation starter more than a hunky boy. Such was my dilemma several years ago when I attended my first professional sporting event. The Braves were playing at Turner Field in the ATL, and I went with my church youth group. I arrived at the church and quickly scanned the group for my current crush - SCORE! Those baby blues sparkled in the sunlight as he flashed a grin at me; every girl can relate to my ecstatic joy when I was placed in a carpool with him and his hot friend - AND I got to sit in the middle!
So, game. I believe the Braves played the Padres. In my defense I had NO IDEA about baseball - even less than football, which was already next to nothing. The only thing I remember about baseball in highschool was Tony Bellew in those TIGHT pants and Katie explaining that the net was there to catch stray balls. I didn't believe her, however, until the first foul ball would have given me a concussion had the net been absent.
But here I am, getting off track. I used my small knowledge of baseball combined with a mean flirty blink and sheepish grin to keep my crush chatting with me the entire game. He was a photographer and I also feigned being able to get a good shot so he would offer to help me; he did, and I'm pretty sure I framed the picture he took...of the baseball field. Towards the end of the game I had to pee so badly my bladder was threatening to kill my family and burn down my house should I wait any longer. I just knew if I got up my seat next to him would be unavailable when I returned. Alas, it was, but thankfully it was near the end of the game. The Braves beat the Padres but of the exact score I am less sure. Like I said, my attention was - not surprisingly - spent elsewhere.

Seat 1C. Cute? Yes. His tow-colored mop curled impishly about his ears, highlighting his hazel eyes and warm mouth. He grinned at me, his teeth dazzling – I’ll give him that. His pink shirt was pitted with holes which resembled a mouse in his laundry, and his khaki shorts were faded but comfortable looking. Still, nothing to write home about. But, you ask, aren’t I doing just that? Ah, yes, but you see, this story is a bit more interesting than just another pretty face.
I officially met my first “famous” person.
He asked for a Diet Coke…something about a British accent gets me every time. Owners of such an accent could call me a warty, frog-faced dog and somehow it would still sound endearing. But, I digress.
Through a course of events, he made his way to the galley to ask for a refill to top off his drink. He stayed to chat, intrigued, I’m sure, by my enthralling beauty. Okay, wake up, Meredith. In reality, he wanted to know about our job, how exciting it was, which entitled us to ask about his. He meandered around the question, prolonging our conversation and inevitably making me fall more in love with his adorable accent. Finally, we got the answer we were searching for, “I’m actually going to Boston for work…I’m in the PGA.”
Now, before I go any further, let me apologize in advance to any golf fans. I do not – nor ever will – take an interest in or watch the sport for leisure. My next comment was a serious lapse of common sense which caused me to greatly question my powers of observation. I understand this.
“So,” I asked. “You’re good at golf?”
Sara, my friend who was flying the trip with me, looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just insulted George W. Bush by asking who he was.
“Meredith,” she said, with a tone of YOU IDIOT, “he’s in the PGA.”
I think I started looking for a hole somewhere that I could crawl into. Sheepishly, I apologized for my obviously stupid comment, but he only grinned at me and said, “Yeah, you might say I’ve got a talent for hitting balls.”
He proceeded to tell us about his life as a golf star; all the while, I still had no idea who this man was. When he got to the story about renting an entire race track in Paris for him and his friends to race their race cars, I kind of got the idea that maybe he made a lot of money.
“What’s your favorite city?” he asked me.
“Seattle,” I answered in the next second. “But I couldn’t afford to live there right now. Maybe one day.”
“But why not? Just get you a sugar-daddy and you could have it all. Let’s see…you could be with Bill Gates!” He suggested emphatically.
My face must have produced his next answer – “Oh my god, could you imagine, shaggin’ Bill Gates?”
At which, of course, we all burst into embarrassed laughter.
At one point, he returned to his seat to retrieve a paper – I hurriedly checked the manifest to see his name, making a note to Google him later.
Ian Poulter. According to his website stats, he is ranked twenty-seven in the world, making close to $10,000,000 this year alone. He is also the famous wearer of the “crazy outfits,” according to our pilots who later found out he’d been on our flight. Indeed he did own quite a few outrageous pairs of pants - from ones sporting the American Flag to Fleur de Lis, even snakeskin and Celtic plaid paraded throughout his eccentric wardrobe.
At the time Mr. Poulter was telling us of his plan to launch a new line of golf-wear for fellow players. I met him about a year ago, and according to his website, in April of this year he launched his line world wide in seventeen countries and his designs are being worn by young golf stars everywhere. Not that I'm an advert for him at all, lol.
It was quite the experience.

Seattle, Washington – a place near and dear to my heart. As I sat in the gate area waiting to board the flight I was to take with my best friend, we both gasped and spotted tall, dark, and handsome at ten o’clock. Ironically that was the time of day as well. As my friend and I were standby, we unfortunately sat on pins and needles through the two hour delay, not even sure we would make it to Seattle that night.
Sighing with relief when the gate agent finally called our names, I boarded the plane and made my way to the last row of seats. Getting ready to sigh inwardly as I realized I was – of course – trapped in the middle, my sigh turned into an, “Oh…” as I saw the handsome stranger in the seat next to me. Flashing him one my biggest grins, I settled into the once-loathed middle seat with a smile of satisfaction. Well, as the saying goes, when God closes a door, he always gives you a piece of hot-ass man candy to drool over. Or something like that.
Casually I made conversation whilst staring into his velvet browns.
“Yes, I live in Seattle.”
I was almost certain I heard him ask me to marry him and move there, too, but you know how loud the plane engines are, so I could be wrong. Still further research landed me in the middle of a foreign playing field – sports. Pun intended. “Yeah, I actually play for the Seattle Seahawks.”
Seahawks, seahawks…Is that a bird? I’d never heard of it before. I recall my mother once mentioning there was no such thing. What was worse, I had NO idea what sport this team belonged to.
I realized I was probably staring at him dumbly, so I smiled and nodded, “Wow, that’s so cool!”
But like Little George Washington, I cannot tell a lie, and so I piped up a moment later.
“I’m sorry that I have to ask you this, but what sport do you play?”
Twisting my face into what I hoped appeared to be remorse at so indelicately wounding his pride, I was relieved to see him smile back assuredly and say, “It’s okay, the Seahawks are actually a football team.” He seemed to enjoy the fact that someone wouldn’t be plaguing him for stats the entire five hour flight.
I noticed he’d brought along a DVD, The 13th Warrior, starring the notable Antonio Banderas. I recalled the day during senior year in Mrs. Harper’s joke of an English class when the famous substitute, Mrs. Brown, was surreptitiously duped into believing that our teacher actually left Monty Python and the Holy Grail as our movie assignment as opposed to a film concerning our current literature piece, Beowulf - enter The 13th Warrior, which I never chanced to see.
Smiling inwardly I mentioned that it was a good movie – in hopes, of course, that I would be invited to watch it with him on his DVD player. One heartbeat later he queried, “You wanna join me?” as he held up an extra set of headphones.
Did I ever!
When the film ended I could only hope he wouldn’t judge me by my apparent lack of taste in movies. The 13th Warrior was one of the most corny, horribly-acted, lame-scripted movies I’d seen in a very long time. And he actually thought I LIKED the movie! That was probably worse than him finding out I fibbed about having seen it..
As the story obviously goes, Mr. Seahawk didn’t ask for my hand in marriage or offer to sail a thousand seas for a token of my love, but I mustn’t give up hope.
Note to self: destroy all copies of The 13th Warrior to save thousands of girls potential embarrassment.