Since we’re on the topic of sky travel, I’m going to go ahead and share a crazy little story from the Archives of Mary. No, it doesn’t involve joining the Mile High Club. But in the same way I can’t really wrap my head around (ahem) doing it in the Tupperware container they call a lavatory, the following is equally as outrageous.
I have the pleasure of traveling (some would say a lot) for work. Nothing says fun like a 36 hour trip to LonGisland, NY, am I right? Earlier this year, I was returning from a quick trip back east and was hard pressed to make it to my 6:00am flight at Newark. Through some sort of miracle, I made it to my flight, got through hellish security, and trudged to 28C (on about 2 hours of sleep). There was a woman sitting in 28B, and has a pleasant looking 3 year old on her lap. “Would you be willing to switch two rows up to 26C?” she said. “My brother is in that seat, and we’d like to sit together.”
(I’m going to interject here and say that, unless impossible, I only sit in aisle seats on planes. Not dissimilar to my bus seat experience, I’ve logged many hours on planes in the last few years, and have come to realize that the aisle seat is primo real estate (I’ll spare you a diagram). Something about the window makes me feel stuck¸ and don’t even get me started on the middle seat. Some might disagree with me, but each to their own. Anyway, I digress.)
I pleasantly agreed because a. I’m all for family, b. it’s an aisle seat, and c. karma, hello. As I walked up there she, in all honesty said, “Besides, you’d probably rather not sit next to a 3 year old with a small bladder.” Right you are.
I arrived at the seat, and what did I see? Oh, just this: a large woman in the middle seat, holding a GIANT BALD BABY, like huge, and a squirmy little 7 year old in the window seat. OKAY. I longingly looked back at 28C and brainstormed ways to justify booting the Brother. Nothing came to me. I took my seat (of doom).
I’ll go ahead and bullet the highlights for you:
- Upon closer inspection of the mother, she was weraing a tshirt that bore these words: “Pillaging, Drinking, Flogging, Raping – Just another day in the life” topped off by a skull and cross bones. Day in the life of WHATTTTT?
- I witnessed the public beratement of the 7 year old. 
“What the HELL is wrong with you, you little sh*t!” “You are NOT allowed to communicate with me at all. No talking, no noises, you’re already getting a whoopin’ when we get back home.” (Incidentally, home is Kodiak aka the middle of nowhere Alaska, scroll out on that sh*t.) And yes, “whoopin” was the word of choice.
- I found out that the woman’s boyfriend was towards the back of the plane, as were his two teenagers (“I HATE teenagers. I can’t believe he has teenagers” said the woman).
- The milk in the baby’s bottle (whom she refers to as “son” the whole trip does he not have a name!?) was SOUR. It smelled. BADLY. And she finally realized it after he had already thrown it on the ground several times, and she had shoved it back in his mouth, again, several times.
- The 7 year old, while I feel bad for her because she is growing up in what looks like an uncontrolled household, started to really bug me. And rightly so, the poor thing had nothing to do. I don’t particularly like strangers touching me (who really likes that?), and she would NOT keep her BARE FEET off me. And her hands. Kept. Touching my FACE. ACK.
- Throughout the flight, I was handed a baby, a sour milk bottle, a container of chips (that the baby was eating. Also, curiously, the baby ate salami. Anyone else think that is strange?) to hold. Oh, and a dirty diaper. Yeah.
Riddle me this: Who in their right mind doesn’t bring things to engage a 7 year old on a plane!? Dare I suggest a book, a dvd, or maybe a (harmless little) sleeping pill (I went there)? She just squirmed, and moved, and talked, and screamed (along with the HUGE BALD BABY) the entire five hour plane ride.
By the time we touched down at SeaTac and started gathering our things, I was only thinking of the Brother in 28C who, at this point, owed me his LIFE.
What are your thoughts? Am I a total nutcase or is this becoming a problem? Weigh in below.
Car, schmar! Apparently, you strap that puppy to your back and pedal on down to the nearest Christmas tree drop site! Because when your bike is your car, your back is the hood, duh! For the intellects out there, I’ll explain this in S.A.T. terms: bike: car as back: hood. Editor’s note: I did a fairly extensive Bing search (yes, I’m drinkin’ the Microsoft Kool-Aid) to give you dear readers a small glimpse into the oddity that was Man-On-Bike-With-Oversized-Tree, but couldn’t find a single picture that did this man’s joy ride any justice. What a trend setter he is. 
