I'm currently waiting for Maude to put Benj down, and then we're going to leave him to his grandparents and go shopping.
Having checked email and briefly perused the news, blogging seemed in order. Really, I feel like between my pre-flight post and Nick's description of me as a frenzied, teeth-gnashing, licorice drooling freak, I need to do a little clarifying.
Yes, I hate to fly. Yes, I get all freaked out.
I'm someone who is reliably 5-10 minutes late to every non-work, non-doctor's appointment. My friends know I'm on time, within this small window.
But the days I fly, I really do get so agitated. I have a tremendous need to get to the airport super early, although I'm not sure why.
And yes, I do have firmly in mind that getting on a plane, this could be it. I call my nearest and dearest for a last last last minute goodbye. Because the goodbye-I-love-you from an hour prior might have worn off. Or I might not get another chance.
And yes, I had a big chocolate Frosty while waiting. And I had Snickers, M&Ms, and Milky Way for the flight. Not to calm myself down, but rather, in case we plummet into the ocean, I'll have crammed in the kinds of things I want to eat daily but don't.
None of this is rational, but it's just how it goes.
I don't froth at the mouth, I don't pace, I don't rock in my seat or drool. But I am all clenched at takeoff and landing, and as soon as we hit turbulence, I'm prepared for the worst.
I always know where my nearest exits are, bearing in mind that the closest one might be behind me.
I did get all distracted this time, though, because I was about to have three seats across. I could lay down! I could put my feet up! I could sleep!
And then, at the last minute before takeoff, this man slid furtively into the other aisle seat.
I'd shoved stuff on the middle seat to claim it, and he proceeded to do the same.
Fucking douche with his fucking Kindle.
I was so busy giving him the stinkeye that takeoff caught me off guard. And then I realized that putting waves of loathing out into the plane was bad strategy in terms of helping the universe with a smooth takeoff. So I tried to think happy thoughts.
I must admit, though, once safely in the air, I did try to fart at him through the flight, and I was dearly regretting not having eaten fibrous vegetables earlier in the day.
You just never know when you'll sorely wish to summon a terrible gas of death.
So I resented the shit out of him for the hours we were in the air, and I wasn't sleeping, and he was all crashed out in his chair. Sleeping! In cattle class seat! He could've stayed in his own fucking chair!
But at some point around midnight, after watching Frost Nixon over dinner, I calmly ate my M&Ms and Snickers and read my book - The Yiddish Policemen's Union - which, while I love Michael Chabon, hasn't captivated me.
On a sidebar - do those of you who have boobs in your normal life regularly drop food into them? It's become an issue with me. And I'm not above reaching in to dig out bits of caramel and peanut rather than letting them melt into my bra.
I am pretty sure I was done wishing him ill by the time they served cold jam-filled rolls, although maybe not entirely. I might've hated him a little as he awoke.
Then he went back to his actual seat to retrieve his belongings and get off the plane.
I saw a man I thought was him in the metro a couple days ago, and considered furtively trying to trip him. But if you've not sure, it's best not to trip a random Dutch stranger.
Which is really just common sense, isn't it?