19 October 2010

Life on the tarmac...

A long time ago, The Nice Kid and I got on a plane about every two weeks. Going to Texas or coming home to visit. When she was a baby, I worried myself sick about her crying...I lived in fear of someone knifing me in mid-air to SHUT THAT BABY UP.

Eventually, a lady told me, "It doesn't bother other people as much as it bothers you," and while I wasn't sure I believed her, I decided to go with it.

Later on, I learned that if you buy a box of bandaids before you get on board, you'll never hear a peep out of your toddler....opening all those little packages and coverning her knees with bandaids keeps her entertained for HOURS. (Although picking up those paper stubs is a bitch ;)

HOWEVER. There does come a time when nothing will suffice but a good backhand. Unfortunately, most of the kids who NEED one, need it because they've never HAD one. Combine close proximity with...close proximity and bratty kids and end-of-the-day mechanical angst and...the world is out to get City Girl. Sitting here last night when up pops a message:

I need to vent to someone while I sit on the tarmac...This plane fucking stinks. Literally. The toilets on this - pretty damn big - plane must be overflowing. Granted, it's 9 pm and I'm sure the plane has been full all day, but this is torture. It is like a Port-o-let in August. Only confined to a couple thousand square feet. I dug out two Purell wipes, gave one to the guy beside me, and we're using them as odor barriers whenever the toilet door opens and closes. He thinks I'm a goddess for giving him something to whiff besides urine and chemicals. I seriously think he's about to write me a fucking check.

Okay, I'm rolling on the floor by now. Because you know, they're not serving drinks yet. I mean, be real...the fumes from a straight bourbon would go a LONG way toward soothing her nasal passages. Finally, she gets in the air and...double-whammy!

The travel gods took a series of additional dumps on me when they assigned me to a seat in between FOUR kids. A 12 year old whiner named Paul (who the guy from Omaha beside me said he'd disown if it was his eff-ing son) who I *thought* was 6 or 7, sat behind me and kicked my seat the entire flight while he whined about not having wifi - apparently his mother didn't know about GoGo.

When she suggested he pull out his book, he screamed "I HATE BOOKS!" To which Omaha whispered, "Good luck getting a job one day, you little douche bag. You'll be living in our mother's basement FOREVER." I said, "Nah. He can always get a government job." At that point Paul started a whinefest of epic proportion over pretzels and I popped in my earbuds.


Then National rented me a Yukon, which I swear to god is bigger than my bathroom...aaaand has GPS that doesn't actually work. I'm hoping all the bad shit is happening in Jax where everyone is laid back, so that only good things will come my way in Jersey next week. I am actually, literally, afraid to go to Jersey. Seriously.

G'nite.

God bless her...

2 comments:

Country Girl said...

I'm considering having her "check in" periodically, just to make sure she's alive and functional ;)

fatboyfat said...

That's City Girl, living the dream as always.