Howdy! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday, one without too much drama, stress, and weight gain. My trip, once I got to Texas, was awesome and uneventful with nary a family drama-rama tale to tell, which is good. But my 10 hours spent in the airport and on a plane (20 total if you include the trip back), was enough to make me hate people forever.
First off, we’ve discussed my nose several times, so you know I was hella disgusted on the plane. People fucking stink, and they eat smelly food. And, of course, the guy right across from me pulled out a nasty, brown spotted banana as soon as we boarded and ate it before we even took off. I hate bananas. Hate them. And what did Nasty Banana Man do with the peel? He stuck it in the little pocket thing in front of his seat, and it was a good hour before a flight attendant came around with a trash bag. For me, nothing could possibly be worse than sitting next to a banana peel. Oh wait, yes, there could. Banana Man ate another freaking banana shortly before landing. Seriously, who eats two bananas on one plane ride?
Anyway, I could go on forever about how disgusting people are, but there are more important things to discuss.
Though my husband and I are childless, and have no plans to have children, I am no stranger to biology giving my uterus a tug. Most women know what I am talking about, and until about a year ago I thought I was immune to the whole call of nature thing. As it turns out, I am not. But, for better or worse, crotch fruit are not in the cards for my man and I. And let me tell you, whatever small part of me had any notion of having kids died a violent death at the airport last week.
There were approximately a dozen small persons under the age of two on my flight, and every one of those tiny tots were really, really pissed off about being dragged from their comfy homes. No kidding. All of them were fussy and crying and flat out refused to shut the hell up. Kids, especially small ones, don’t have a way to communicate their frustrations, so they let loose a loud and incessant wail. Is it irritating? Hell yes. Could I be angry about it? No, they can’t help it. And I couldn’t blame them either, because I kinda wanted to cry and throw a fit too.
Now, I know people say things change when it’s your own kid and blah blah blah, but judging from the parental responses to the cacophony, I think that’s a bunch of BS. It wasn’t so much all the screaming that made me glad to not have a small spawn of my own, it was the expression on the faces of the moms – pure stress, exhaustion, and frustration. And I witnessed some serious spousal meltdowns at Gate 4. Like, holy hell I smell a divorce coming kind of meltdowns. Or at the very least, no action in the bedroom for a long, long time meltdowns. Lemme give you an example. One couple had two small kids, one of which was still breastfeeding, the other about three years old. Mom had the tiny one attached to a nipple, right out there for everyone to see, because that was the only way she could stop her infant from using its considerable set of lungs. I am not sure how I’d feel about being a human pacifier, but whatever, it stopped the crying, and mom could turn her focus to dad, who for whatever reason was roughhousing with the older one. As in, getting the child riled up to the point of hysteria. Mom asked in a venom-filled voice, “What are you doing?!?”
Dad replied in an are-you-stupid-what-does-it-look-like-I’m-doing voice, “I’m getting her to expend energy before we get on the plane.”
The plane he referred to was the one that was boarding first class passengers at that very moment, which meant we were all about to get on the freaking thing. Now, I am not a parent, but even I know getting a child worked into a frenzy right before boarding is not a good idea. Start on that stuff early buddy – all you’re doing is turning your kid into Damien, and then releasing it on everyone else. Not cool, bucko.
Anyway, what I learned from that little scenario was that having a kid attached to your boob won’t stop someone from letting loose a major string of profanity. During the three hours I spent in the terminal (don’t even get me started on that one), I also learned many men possess the ability to tune out whatever is going on with their children, leaving their wife/girlfriend/ babymomma to deal with the babies. It was fascinating, the way in which these various dudes mastered the art of staring intently at their iphone, or the television, or even off into space, seemingly unaware of their three loud children crawling all over the mom. Honestly, it sort of looked like one of those nature shows, where the spider eggs hatch and they spew forth and devour the mother. Only there was no death, on no, uh-uh – just a long plane ride for these lucky ladies. My heart went out to all the momma’s that had the courage to round up their young and make the trek to grandma’s house – and if any of you happened to be one of them, then God bless ya, and I am willing to bet you need a vacation to recover from your holiday.
On a separate note, thanks to those of you that purchased a copy of Drink Well and Human Resources, Martinis, and Other Bad Things. If you haven’t already done so, then please leave a review on Amazon. I had several people let me know the Spiced Ginger Whiskey got them through Thanksgiving. I’m glad to hear it, and you are welcome.
