Come Fly With Us; We Own Your Ass Anyway.

I hate to fly anymore. Freaking airlines know road trips are a thing of the past now and have given up all pretense of competing for our financial affection. I remember a time when I used to love it -- the anticipation of new adventures, the adorable miniaturized food, the solicitous flight attendants. Now it's just a contest to see who can navigate the excruciating gauntlet of rude skycaps, finely printed surcharges and ever-shrinking legroom without the aid of a Valium and legal representation.

My flight there was accompanied by the shrieking of a two year old who was just flat out pissed Mom wasn't going to defy the FAA, the flight attendant and airport security to hold her on her lap throughout our descent and on the taxiway. Dad bitched at Mom to shut the kid up, Mom bitched at the flight attendant that the rules were stupid, and the kid howled until her snot-covered face turned eight shades of eggplant. Six babies on this flight, and every one an angel except for the one in closest proximity to me. Don't tell me Murphy wasn't involved in this somehow.

On the flight back, I was informed one of my bags was 1 pound over the new 50-pound limit and I'd have to take something out and repack it. I told them no muther-effing way -- it took me 2 hours to pack that bag, so go ahead and charge me the overage. The girl laughed at me and asked if I was really going to pay $25 for one pound. I glared at her and said, "That depends. Are you really going to charge me $25 for one pound?" They let it go, whether because they saw the idiocy of their ways or they just weren't in the mood to deal with my pissiness, who knows.

When I got on the plane I was informed my carry-on would have to be moved from the bin over my head to one roughly eight rows back. I asked why. He said it was policy that us coach class peons can't have our luggage mucking up the snooty first class bins, even when coach is full and first class is empty. Or something along those lines. I gave him my longest, sharpest, "Do you actually have a brain in there or do you just use it to hold your earrings?" look. I asked him how exactly I was going to get it back, since Lord knows no one goes to the back of the plane once the stampede for the door starts. He shrugged and apologized, mumbling something about a senior flight attendant with a bullwhip. He eventually relented, bringing my bag back from Siberia with a creepy wink and sneaky sideways look at the senior flight attendant. Like we were in cahoots or something. Jeezis, somebody needs to either grow a set or learn how to use 'em.

Lucky for me, no babies on this flight. Just a little old lady with the world's sharpest elbows who kept poking me in the side. She was nice and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but she had zero concept of The Armrest Marks Your Personal Space Rule. The tenth time she jabbed those bony wings into my ribs I wanted to yell, "For love of God will you tuck those things IN already!"
I didn't. Mercy, compassion and Stolichnaya prevailed. All is well.