Before Christmas, we are sitting in the airport on our way to Seattle, at the gate in Dayton when a woman and her son sit a few seats away from David. I hadn't noticed the boy, but David looks over at me, gets my attention and gives me the crazy eye.
I take a beat and look over at the boy (crazy white man's afro, maybe 13) and his Mom (older than me, salt and pepper Marsha Brady hair, bra-less, and layered up with sweaters. Like she wore everything she owned and didn't check a bag) and look back to David. He leans in, over Bubba, and in his tiniest whisper says, "That is the most disgusting pillow I have ever seen. Like what vagrant used that for 20 years before giving it to this kid?" I lean away from David, look around the room to prep myself and finally my eyes rest on the item in question.
Was it EVER washed? Eww.
Fast forward a few hours, we are roaming around the Chicago airport and waiting for our next flight. The subject of seating arrangement arises and it is decided that I will sit next to our kids and David will sit across the aisle with two strangers.*
*Let me just insert here that I ALWAYS sit alone on flights. I have since we had kids. It was decided a long time ago that David would handle kids in flight and I would sit and read, ipod whatever. It is just our thing. It was supposed to be my time of relaxation. Yea, right. Let me also insert here that every time I have sat alone I have always been the person that EVERYONE pities on the flight because I get the weirdos. I am a weirdo magnet.
Off the top of my head, the worst one? Once, on a flight from Minneapolis to Seattle I sat next to a couple who had twin lap babies. I swear said children where over two. Had to be. Let me spell this out for you. 5 people. 3 seats.
On top of the uncomfortable seating arrangement this idiot couple did not bring ONE FREAKING thing for these enormous "under 2's" to eat...play with...or drink.
Swear to God.
Half way through the flight after the stupidest parents on Earth fed the twins milk followed by a orange juice chaser...and you guess it, they barfed.
All over me. All over the parents. All over themselves.
Being the over prepared psycho parent I am, I pull out ziploc baggies one with baby wipes, one with clorox wipes (to wipe the tray tables and seat beat buckles, silly) and one with plastic grocery bags to help said idiots clean up and dispose of the soiled clothes etc, because God knows when and where they are going to get the brains to/means to do this on their own. I also excuse myself to the bathroom taking my own spare pants and shirt (yes, I carry those in my bag) in their ziploc and clean myself up. And yes, I go through a box of gallon ziploc bags when I flew with my kids. If you ever take a baby on a plane, bag EVERYTHING separately in ziplocs. I swear by it.
But I digress. David. Me. Chicago. Discussing seating arrangements.
David jokingly tells me he is going to take one for the team and sit with the crazies this go 'round. We board the plane. We settle into our seats. And you guessed it...
Pillow boy and his Mom are David's seat mates. Pillow boy takes the window. Mom in the center seat. I am chuckling to myself, but I have no idea what is to come.
I, the uber prepared, take out my ipod and start watching a rerun of American Pickers. David looks longingly at my ipod and I produce a second ipod stocked and charged specifically for him. (FYI:He has his own ipod, but (bet you $100 bucks) it is not charged nor are there tv shows on it. FYI#2: We have 5 ipods between the 4 of us because anytime anyone upgrades I get the old ones and I have 2 old generation nanos).
About two hours into the flight the show begins. I hear something through my headphones. A strange sound. I glance over Afro boy's Mom and she is looking through a magazine rapidly and after she flips each page she rips it out and wads it into a ball. It takes me a second to digest this. Crazy lady is ripping the magazine apart.
After the pile of wadded up magazine pages gets to big for her lap, she starts shoving them down the front of her million layers of sweater.
I laugh, out loud, and try to catch David's eye. He knows better than to look at me and ignores my stares. I am willing him with all my telepathic being to look at me, but he will not cooperate.
After her sweater is full, did I tell you she had a freaking stack of magazines? She takes one of the sweaters tied around her waist and starts stuffing THAT with magazines. When she is done, like 30 minutes later, she sits and rocks the magazine baby for a while.
What is Afro boy doing? Of coarse. He is asleep against the window on the nappy pillow.
I'm done watching my ipod at this point.
There is a better show on now, and it is LIVE.
I take out my magazine and pretend to read it, watching the crazy lady. After rocking her baby a few more minutes, she whispers something to David and he stands up to let her out to use the bathroom.
Whispers. Hand gestures. Me laughing myself into
an asthma attack, and 5 minutes later crazy lady returns sans magazines.
I look over at David making crazy eyes.
Where are they?
She must have flushed them.
Crazy lady pulls her backpack, that also must have been owned by the bum that owned her son's pillow, and rifles through it's contents and comes up with a plastic store container with a slice of day old blueberry pie in it. She looks around and pauses a beat, thinking. Then, she opens the container of pie and starts eating it, without utensils.
Swear to God.
She is eating this piece of pie like it is her last meal and she just smoked something in the bathroom. Blueberries on the face, blueberries down her shirt.
I am DESPERATELY trying to catch David's eye,
he will not budge.
He is not going to loose it. Tears are practically in his eyes.
The finale? An announcement comes over the PA system that we are beginning our decent. Crazy lady rips open her backpack and roots around and produces a HUGE pill box. She opens a few of it's doors and proceeds to down two handfuls of pills.
I am seriously about to wet my pants.
I am writhing in pain from the laughing stomach ache I have.