There's something about seeing a 90 lb. 90-year-old elbow her way to the front of the plane (because God-forbid anyone reach the empty baggage claim area before she does) that both alarms and amuses me. It's so raw, so wild, so impolite, so...STUPID! I see it in the young, the old, the big and the small: manners and logic fly out the window when people fly anywhere.
To all those people with seating assignments in zone 6 who insist on crowding around the front of the boarding line like rabid wolves, waiting for your zone to be called...SIT DOWN. Your being at the front of the line is not going to make the plane take off more quickly. In fact, it confuses the people in zones 1-5, who stand behind you, thinking that you're in their zone and that they need to wait behind you. Congratulations, geniuses, you single-handedly just slowed down the boarding of the entire damn plane and now we're 15 minutes behind-schedule because of that.
Look at the 15-seat-deep stomach-to-back-tight line for the bathroom at any given moment in the flight...Listen to the clamor of clicking as everyone scrambles to unfasten their seat belts the very microsecond the captain turns off the "fasten seat belt" sign when the flight is over...all so they can squeeze themselves into an over-crowded aisle where they push and shove to grab their bags. Humans have such an intense desire to be first and such a deep distaste for being cooped up that they will blindly sabotage their own efforts in their misguided attempts to obtain their freedom. First.
Sit your ass down in your seat and wait for those first 30 aisles ahead of you to empty out instead of constipating the aisle any further with your farty-plane-seat stench and your awkward carry-on that, let's face it, is so damn big, it should have been checked.
Oh, and if you're one of those lovely people with a window seat who insists on standing up next to me at the end of the flight to let me know you want out, DON'T WORRY. I'll let you brush past me the very moment the aisle beside me clears enough for you to do so. It is not okay to wedge yourself between me and the seat in front of me and breathe down my neck. There's no room in the aisle for me, so why do you think there's going to be any room for your double-wide?
Life is much less stressful when you just let go and let people go before you. How many minutes do you really gain in your frantic rush? 1? 2? Is that worth the stress? If you truly can't wait, if you have a flight to catch, exercise some manners. A little "pardon," "please," and "thank you" go a long way and have the curious effect of clearing a pathway instantaneously.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday night.
While the city is teeming with 20-somethings, adorned in every costume conceivable, flocking to bars and parties to ring in another Halloween, here I lounge.
I'm careful to keep the volume of the TV down; I don't want to wake Brooklyn and, really, it's only background noise while I aimlessly peruse the internet, stopping intermittently to sip on a glass of cheap wine that may or may not have been poured from a jug.
Although, to some, this might be the definition of depressing, it's perfectly okay by me. There are benefits to unwinding alone and I just happen to be kind enough to list them for my fellow comrades who are reading:
1. Two hundred dollars will not mysteriously disappear from my bank account tonight because of my giving heart and penchant for buying a round for the bar the very moment I've had too much to drink.
2. I will not be stuck on the F train platform for an hour tonight, holding my breath while the garbage train rolls through the station, and praying to the Oscar the Grouch that my train will show up in time for me to not piss my costume pants. (What would I be for Halloween, you ask? Ha. Wouldn't you like to know?...actually, I would, too...)
3. My purse is safe and sound, sitting on my bed right now, as opposed to lying forgotten on the ground, mopping up the drink that an enthusiastic Jon-Gosselin-costume-wearing fool just spilled.
4. My dignity is still somewhat in tact (Carlos Rosse excluded) instead of being paraded about town in blister-spawning 4-inch hooker boots that apparently come standard with every whore-a-ween costume for women out there. (That's it! I should go as a hooker for Halloween one year...I wonder if anyone will know what I am supposed to be...)
5. On that note, Brooklyn's last thought before falling asleep tonight was NOT, "Why does mommy look like a slut?" (hush.)
6. Staying home affords me the opportunity to make superior comments and grinch-like observations about sloppy people who enjoy making asses out of themselves on Halloween. (See what I did there? No? Meh.)
7. While you lose brain cells, my Scrabble game continues to improve and...eh, I got nothing.
Anyone know a good babysitter?
I'm careful to keep the volume of the TV down; I don't want to wake Brooklyn and, really, it's only background noise while I aimlessly peruse the internet, stopping intermittently to sip on a glass of cheap wine that may or may not have been poured from a jug.
Although, to some, this might be the definition of depressing, it's perfectly okay by me. There are benefits to unwinding alone and I just happen to be kind enough to list them for my fellow comrades who are reading:
1. Two hundred dollars will not mysteriously disappear from my bank account tonight because of my giving heart and penchant for buying a round for the bar the very moment I've had too much to drink.
2. I will not be stuck on the F train platform for an hour tonight, holding my breath while the garbage train rolls through the station, and praying to the Oscar the Grouch that my train will show up in time for me to not piss my costume pants. (What would I be for Halloween, you ask? Ha. Wouldn't you like to know?...actually, I would, too...)
3. My purse is safe and sound, sitting on my bed right now, as opposed to lying forgotten on the ground, mopping up the drink that an enthusiastic Jon-Gosselin-costume-wearing fool just spilled.
4. My dignity is still somewhat in tact (Carlos Rosse excluded) instead of being paraded about town in blister-spawning 4-inch hooker boots that apparently come standard with every whore-a-ween costume for women out there. (That's it! I should go as a hooker for Halloween one year...I wonder if anyone will know what I am supposed to be...)
5. On that note, Brooklyn's last thought before falling asleep tonight was NOT, "Why does mommy look like a slut?" (hush.)
6. Staying home affords me the opportunity to make superior comments and grinch-like observations about sloppy people who enjoy making asses out of themselves on Halloween. (See what I did there? No? Meh.)
7. While you lose brain cells, my Scrabble game continues to improve and...eh, I got nothing.
Anyone know a good babysitter?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
GTFO MY SEAT, YOU UNFEELING ASS!
You.
Yeah, you.
Go ahead and pretend to be absorbed in your book. I can tell it's a romance novel by the lack of cover and the way you are careful to cover the spine with your hand, offering no one the opportunity to reflect on your crap taste in literature.
We both know you just rudely shoved past me and stole the last open seat on the entire train during rush hour. We both know I was waiting to board first. We both know I had unspoken dibs on that seat. We both know I'm the one carrying five bags while you're not even carrying a purse.
It's okay. You can try to ignore me while I melt your face with these concentrated laserbeams of spite coming from my eyes. Sit there and shift uncomfortably in your (my) seat and just try to shrug off the guilt of knowing you're a selfish wench.
Since I can't have my seat, I'll just go ahead and hang onto the railing directly overhead so that my bags sway precariously close to your face. Also, that smell? I may or may not be releasing a little pent up frustration via my asshole. That's right I just farted. In your face.
I notice you've made it through six pages already in the minute and a half I've been standing here. Now, either you've come to the, ahem--climax--of your little sex novel, and you are really enjoying it, or you're having an epiphany about your own douchebagness and can't focus on what you're reading. Nah...it may just be the sting of Catholic guilt I'm burning into you with my mind.
Only 12 more stops to go before my exit. Are you sure you can handle it?
Yeah, you.
Go ahead and pretend to be absorbed in your book. I can tell it's a romance novel by the lack of cover and the way you are careful to cover the spine with your hand, offering no one the opportunity to reflect on your crap taste in literature.
We both know you just rudely shoved past me and stole the last open seat on the entire train during rush hour. We both know I was waiting to board first. We both know I had unspoken dibs on that seat. We both know I'm the one carrying five bags while you're not even carrying a purse.
It's okay. You can try to ignore me while I melt your face with these concentrated laserbeams of spite coming from my eyes. Sit there and shift uncomfortably in your (my) seat and just try to shrug off the guilt of knowing you're a selfish wench.
Since I can't have my seat, I'll just go ahead and hang onto the railing directly overhead so that my bags sway precariously close to your face. Also, that smell? I may or may not be releasing a little pent up frustration via my asshole. That's right I just farted. In your face.
I notice you've made it through six pages already in the minute and a half I've been standing here. Now, either you've come to the, ahem--climax--of your little sex novel, and you are really enjoying it, or you're having an epiphany about your own douchebagness and can't focus on what you're reading. Nah...it may just be the sting of Catholic guilt I'm burning into you with my mind.
Only 12 more stops to go before my exit. Are you sure you can handle it?
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