Who knows if it is “good morning,” “good afternoon” or just “good grief?” I am pretty sure I got on this airplane back in Houston about a week ago. At first it was really fun; you know, the packing, the shopping for all the great snacks and trashy magazines. By the time I actually got on the plane and found my little 12-inch space, I had absolutely no place to put all that great stuff I brought to entertain myself.
Right now, my feet are resting on my purse, which is the size of a small laundry basket. I would love to be able to reach down and pluck out one of the 29 snacks I brought. Unfortunately, I have an idea that some of them may be unrecognizable as my feet have been resting on them for quite some time. I did make one attempt to procure a bag of Dove chocolates, but as I leaned down to pick up my bag, the person in the seat in front of me decided to recline and I am pretty sure that I might just have a concussion.
I really hate those airline pillows they give you because they are little more than a fluffy handkerchief. I found this amazing foam pillow that came with a blanket and a sleep mask that regularly sold for $39.99, but was on clearance for $9.99. I put my head on that pillow and almost drifted off right there in the store. No more uncomfortable naps in flight for me.
When I arrived at my gate, I noticed that my fluffy little foam pillow which was sticking half in and half out of my purse had sprung a hole in the seam and when detectives come looking for me, they can simply follow the trail of foam rubber. I will be speaking with the store manager when I return home with my pillow, if there is anything left of it.
My seat is positioned right in front of the most precious toddler who can hit notes higher than Celine Dion. Although I have not seen him, his little shoes have played target practice with my kidney region. I continue to remind myself that I once flew with my own toddlers. That thought is a comfort to me as I climb over my seat mates for my 15th trip to the bathroom.
I believe there must be people on this flight with some serious gastrointestinal issues; either that or they may also be sitting in front of a toddler and are simply hiding in the bathroom. Don’t think that same thought did not occur to me.
I am convinced that the airlines must bottle aromas from some of the finest restaurants available and then release them into the ventilation system. On my last international flight, the smell that wafted its way to my seat as dinner trays were being delivered smelled just like filet mignon. When I peeled off the plastic cover, I realized that they had served me rice, anorexic, overcooked vegetables and a brown rock. There was a fortune cookie on the tray. The message said, “Eat at Chili’s.”