High Jinks

The dude in 28A was picking his nose. Not in that subtle gotta-get-out-a-tiny-dried-booger way. I'm talkin' finger up his nose past the second knuckle. And this was not a quickie. The guy was on a trek, rather his finger was. Mind you that the dude was approaching 40, not 4. During the hour delay to change a flat tire (that somehow went undetected during the maintenance check before we boarded the freaking plane!), he went on to stick said finger into a bag of malted milk balls and nosh away. Sweet and salty treat, eh? I have a hunch this guy knows what ball sweat tastes like.

Three people within striking distance of me used seat belt extenders. Thankfully none of those people was seated next to me. I hate when someone else's person oozes over the arm rest onto me. I am very picky about the people I touch. I am a freak that way.

The man next to me looked like Jesus, right down to the Lord Boards on his feet. He was reading Rumi and chatting about mantras and tantras and such to a woman on his cell phone whom I suspect does not shave her arm pits. He was guzzling Diet Coke. Perhaps Jesus turned water into Diet Coke instead of wine? He snacked on something that reeked of three day old tapenade.

There was the baby who cried for 45 minutes. The gagging, can't-catch-you-breath kind of crying. It reached screech levels at times. Most passengers, and the two flight attendants who were irritable and childless (I know this because they said so.) were enraged. I just felt bad for the mom who was traveling alone. I've walked down the jetway in her shoes. I wanted to nudge her and tell her to put some socks on the infant's bare feet. That plane was a flying Tupperware popsicle mold, man. The poor kid probably just had cold tootsies. The flight attendants did not offer a blanket, which was for the better since someone like the guy in 28A probably had wiped boogers all over it anyway.

I got to sit next to the flight attendant's jump seat. Wow does she need to find a secure home on a therapist's couch somewhere and get out of the friendly skies. She looked me up and down as a school marm might and remarked, "Well, you're as cute as a button, aren't you?!" I simply smiled sheepishly. I must write to Miss Manners to find out the appropriate response to such a comment. Is it a compliment to be "cute as a button" at age 40? My inner jury is still out on that one. She went on to ask me if I was married. Dear God, was she hitting on me? I'm a little daft when it comes to matters of the heart. Then, because we were delayed an hour waiting for the Michelin Man to arrive with his tool belt, we all got to hear her life story.

Age 60.
Divorced for 32 years.
Was married to a gynecologist.
He cheated on her.
No kids.
Never wanted them.
Now doesn't like them.
Looking for a man.
A man with no kids, no parents, no siblings.
A rich man.
No pets.
Must live or want to live in Virginia (being a Virginia girl myself, I can hardly blame her for this criterion.).

I think I just wrote her match.com profile.

Waitress in the Sky played a loop in my head. I was trying desperately to not break into song.

Then the flight attendant started peering at all the men's feet within her range of vision. She was oohing and aahing over one gentleman's piggies. We learned that she once dated a handball player (Is that a job? Really?) who had particularly large hands (duh) and nasty feet. She apparently cannot tolerate bad feet. Must add that detail to her match.com profile. I would argue that there's no such thing as good feet. I nonchalantly tucked my bunioned foot behind the one on which I had endured bunion surgery eight years ago (worse than childbirth I'm telling you!). Crazy flight attendant goes on to ask the man if he's married. Man blushes. Deeply. And he's freaked out, not flattered. Those of us who are buckled into our seats by order of the pilot who controls the illuminated seat belt light are feeling a tish rashy under the collar as if we are watching a female version of George Costanza and Larry David rolled into one terribly frightful character.

The woman next to the man with nice feet fiercely grabs his hand and proclaims him her husband. Four kids. Six grand kids. A house in the country (or boonies, depending on your perspective). A house at the beach. A boat. 36 years of bliss. Cue Diana and Lionel. 'Scuse me while I gag into the courtesy puke bag. It's only a matter of time before airlines start charging us for those too.

Mercifully the pilot informs us we are ready to take off. Engines roar. Muffler moans. We have lift off.

Crazy flight attendant lady loudly remarks, as if she's heckling us all, "Gee, I hope that new tire holds!" Cackling ensued.

Upon closer inspection of her name tag, I realized her name was Jinks.

It's a Wrap.

We are taking a family trip to LA in a couple weeks. I'll have to pack less in my carry on bag since both boys are potty trained now (insert crazy happy dance here). I'll tuck in a change of clothes just in case...fingers crossed! No diapers and baby gear that we needed in the past. No formula. No sippy cups. Same snacks and diversions. The snacks are mostly carbs since it's not so easy to pack bananas and apples. I've tried it, and my bag smelled like mushed bananas for weeks. I swear, I would have been the pied piper of monkeys had I taken that bag to the zoo. And let's face it, carrot sticks are not a fun plane snack so I resort to things like trail mix, pretzels, plantain ships, granola bars, and fruit snacks as a treat. Oh, and lollipops. Helps with the whole air pressure thing while passing for a super treat. Diversions are now of the electronic variety: laptop with DVDs, Leapster, iPod. Does anyone make headphones that stay on a kid's head or in his ears?

Lots to consider when trying to ensure the comfort of my kids and the fellow passengers around us who drew the short stick when seats were assigned. Airplanes are notoriously cold. No need to be nipping out cold in the air, folks. Seriously, does anyone else have this problem? I'm pretty certain my headlights aren't helping the pilot see. I wear layers and pack two thin large receiving blankets for Bird and Deal (takes up way less room than a couple sweatshirts). Mac Daddy must fend for himself, and it's not my fault that he always forgets a sweater for the plane. I just have to endure the complaining.

I believe in looking chic and being comfortable on a plane. My parents taught me and my brother that at a young age, and I'm telling you, it makes a difference. I dress my kids accordingly in something matching and adorable (not Little Lord Fauntleroyish, however). I used to travel in jeans and a cute jacket or something. You'll never, ever catch me in sweats or wind suit (on a plane or elsewhere for that matter). And sneakers? Pshaw! Not a chance (even before the whole stripping down to bare feet to walk where 76,000 people have walked barefoot before you thing started). Since having kids I've resorted to sporting jeans or a jersey dress with a machine washable black cardigan. My fave black cardigan is now more the color of a 1932 penny found in the bottom of a well. What's a girl to do? Jean jacket? Another cardigan? Pashmina?

Then I discovered Adam Peele, aka Ahpeele.

The chic little kimono wrap I ordered from Etsy arrived today. I love it, love it, love it! The design is spectacular and surprisingly versatile. The color is neutral enough without being boringly so. I'm going to wear this wrap everyday until I die. The cotton is soft yet stretchy, but not in that if-you-stretch-it-it-will-stay-stretched-out kind of way. The wrap is perfect with jeans or a strappy sundress. Oh, and the best part? Something about the cut of the wrap makes my pipes look, well, cut. Make that well-cut. (God, don't you just love language?!)I think I'm going to pair mine with a brown tank (to hide spilled coffee stains and chocolate fingerprints), jeans, and slip on flats for the plane. Don't be surprised if I'm wearing that little number in every single family photo. I'm totally packing every outfit around my new wrap.

Happy Feet

It's no secret that I love shoes. I even dream about them. Seriously, one of my frequent dreams is that I open up my extraordinarily large, organized closet to find umpteen boxes of new shoes. Stacked high in clear Rubbermaid boxes and labeled with my new label maker. I delight in my options and try on everything in a frenzy to decide what to wear. It sucks waking up realizing that I'll be donning flip flops or cowboy boots...again.

I equally love shoes for Bird and Deal, even though they want to wear sneakers everyday. Apparently Mac Daddy told them those are the "fast" shoes so anything else I buy doesn't cut the mustard. We will be flying with the kids this summer so sneakers are not an option for expediting an already lengthy security regimen. With my luck, the boys will be fiddling with the laces, creating knots that Salvatore Sarno couldn't untie. Bird is particularly adept at screwing up his laces since he's in the I-want-to-tie-my-own-damn-shoes mode.

In walk Toms Shoes.

These canvas slip ons are as cool as Vans of yore but serve a higher purpose. For every pair you buy, Toms' donates a pair to a child in need. That means that by one simple act of buying shoes (!) that you'd buy anyway, you are doing a good deed. Is there any better motivation to shop?! That's a justification even I haven't used yet. Trying to ignite the economy one Amex charge at a time is a ploy that's not working on Mac Daddy, but even he can't argue with Toms.

The shoes are way cool in a hunky surfer kind of way. The boys can put them on themselves, a real time saver in the security jungle. Based on available sizes, only Deal can sport the Toms. Bird will undoubtedly get jealous, meaning that I'll be shooting off a note to Blake Mycoskie asking him to stock larger sizes. And don't think for a second that I won't be ordering a pair for myself too.

Note that this, like my other unsolicited endorsements and opinions, are unpaid. I'm simply sharing the wealth of knowledge that I garner from shoe surfing.