Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, air travel, airlines, airplanes, airport security, airports, Bathrooms, flying, humor, security, subourbonmom, travel
The day President Obama announced he was officially asking Congress for permission to actively combat ISIS, I was flying home from a work conference. The plane during the flight from Charlotte to home was one of those old, outsourced planes from Canada, or maybe some company called Metal-Tube-in-the-Sky Airline. There were two rows of seats (and those felt like the old plastic covered couches in Grandma’s house) with a very narrow aisle.
About halfway through the flight, the flight attendant came on the loud speaker and said, “Please do not form a line by the bathrooms. It is a security breach.”
A few of us glanced at each other and shrugged. There was some rustling, and I assumed people were returning to their seats. A couple of minutes later, the flight attendant spoke again, this time more urgently:
“It is a breach of security for passengers to congregate by the bathrooms. Please wait until there is no one in line before you come back to use the restrooms.”
Incredulous looks passed around the cabin. Security breach? At the bathrooms?
Here are a few of the thoughts that crossed my mind while I tried to decide how long I should wait before heading back there:
First of all, I’m pretty sure folks weren’t “congregating” around the airplane bathroom, just chatting each other up—after all, it’s not a bar.
Second, what happened to make someone think congregating by the plane’s bathroom could create a security situation so dire it must be forbidden? Have the FAA and Homeland Security folks ever used the bathroom on a modern plane? There’s barely room to get your pants down, much less withdraw a weapon; and, even if you did manage to extract some kind of weapon in the bathroom, having a line of people waiting outside would only hinder what you were trying to do.
If I were to have some kind of concealed weapon, I wouldn’t be getting it ready it at the back of the plane, far away from the two most important people on the plane, the pilot and co-pilot. There’s not much sense in drawing a gun, knife or explosive device and then having to charge down the aisle, tripping over someone’s feet the whole way.
If we follow the logic of the danger of congregating outside crowded bathroom areas to its logical conclusion, we would have to question every line at every sports and concert event ever. Good luck dispersing the six-pack-in throng around the port-a-pods at a Jimmy Buffet concert.
Perhaps someone at the FAA has gone back to the basics of physics—maybe they are worried that if you have enough people standing at the back of the plane, it could simply fall out of the sky. If you’ve ever flown on a tiny plane, you’ve been made aware of weight distribution. They put the luggage in the back, and people in the front and middle. Too much in any direction, and the plane is in danger of not taking off, or tumbling to the ground–like those GI Joe’s with the plastic parachutes we threw from 2nd-floor windows as a kid.
Really, a bathroom security breach sounds more like a blow-out after eating some highly-questionable tuna salad from the airport snack stand. So, to the FAA and Homeland Security, I salute your efforts to keep us safe in the skies—clearly there are dangers we haven’t even conceived of. Keep up the good work.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, children, Disney, family, Fears, Holidays, hope, humor, New Year's, parenting, patience, PDA, resolutions, Space Mountain, subourbonmom, travel
Okay I meant to post this earlier in the year since it’s about New Year’s resolutions, but I couldn’t get organized. So,
Resolution #1: Get organized. Yeah, I’ll get on that–right after I fold those 12 loads of laundry still in a pile on the spare bed, figure out what’s stinking up the fridge from Christmas, and write those thank you notes that are hanging over my head like a guillotine axe (thanks Mom, for that good ol’ Southern guilt).
I’m not a big fan of New Year’s Resolutions, mostly because I suck at them. By February, I’ve usually given up and gone back to eating Rice Krispie treats straight out of the pan. But while we were briefly at Disney World in Orlando this holiday, I realized you can get ideas for New Year’s resolutions just by waiting in the 80-minute line for Space Mountain (and yes, my super-helpful FB friends, we tried Fast-Track, but the earliest spaces available were at 11:00PM).
Here are the resolutions I came up with while waiting in line:
- Have patience. Disney does a fabulous job of keeping you entertained in line for the Space Mountain ride—while you are jammed into the cattle shute with hundreds of other folks, they are are worth observing because, let’s face it, people are just weird. Unlike cattle, though, the people in the shute are aware that they may soon be facing their deaths in that dark cavern of spiraling humanity called Space Mountain; in fact, they go willingly.
PDA is cool—but not in a line with five hundred of your newest friends. It’s especially not okay of you’re over 20—the couple next to us was easily in their 30’s. That’s just nasty. I don’t need to see anyone’s tongue that close up. And the hands groping the muffin top? Nobody wants to see that, no matter what age you are.- Keep your hands to yourself. Not in a PDA sense, but more for Ebola’s sake. Just looking at the handrails skeeved me out.
- Crop dust whenever possible. Always fun, but especially fun when you’re stuck in a dark room with nowhere to go. Be sure to wrinkle your nose, turn around and glare at innocent people—your children are the best target, especially if they’ve been bugging you for souvenirs all day—so are older make-out couples.
- Face your fears. I’ve been afraid to go on Space Mountain, since we first went to Disney probably 35 years ago. This year, Daughter #2 wanted to ride it—it was the only thing she wanted to do while we were there, so I reluctantly said ok. It was awesome. I also felt like a wuss afterwards for being so terrified for so many years.
- Don’t be afraid of the dark. Whether you’re riding a rollercoaster in a pitch black room or dealing with a personal darkness, the ride always comes to a stop. It’s up to you whether you choose to wave your arms in the air and shout “I survived it!,” grit your teeth and stoically step off the ride, or burst into tears. Also, in the dark, you can crop dust to your heart’s content—no one will see you blush.
- Take a second before the next freefall and look up. In Space Mountain there are tiny constellations lit up in the “sky,” just before you plummet into the blackness. It was oddly beautiful, even if it was fake. When you know things are going downhill, take a second and look up—you might see some pinpoints of light.
- Always know where the bathrooms are. An 80-minute line—seriously, Disney? No bathrooms? Let the crop dusting begin….
- Savor the anticipation of doing something new—we had 80 minutes of anticipation, but sometimes you don’t get that much. Take one breath and enjoy your rapidly beating heart, the pump of adrenaline through your veins, the knowledge that you’re really living. You only get to do something for the first time once—hopefully that something new will be fun, not watching strangers making out in front of you and your kid in line. I totally should have blamed the crop dusting on them.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, gifts, horse racing, humor, Montpelier, shopping, south, southern, sports, Steeplechases, subourbonmom, tailgate, tailgates, Virginia
Last weekend we attended the annual Montpelier Hunt Races in Virginia. For those of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you may recall that the stately Montpelier event has always provided me with literary fodder. One election year, I was interviewed in my inebriated condition by an Irish news channel about my thoughts on what it’s like to live in a swing state (see “Schwing State”). Last year, Hubby had an “accident” in the parking lot that involved road rage and karma sent straight from the animal world (see “Traffic Martyrs & Sliders” and “Chipmunk Popsicles”).
This year, I was given a gift. It wasn’t wrapped in Wal-mart Christmas paper with a stick-on bow, or delivered in a turquoise Tiffany box, but it was a gift that I think is priceless—it was a bend-over-because–you-can’t-breathe-oh-my-God-I’m-crying-belly laugh.
Maybe it happened because it’s been a difficult couple of months; maybe it was the wine; or, maybe it happened because sometimes there are just those moments in life that come together to make the perfect storm of funny at the time. Either way, I’m grateful.
My friends Stacie*, Helen* and I were walking back to the tailgate after shopping among the vendors. Helen is single and younger than Stacie and I, and still cares what other people think about how she looks, and about retaining her dignity. We’d watched Helen try on hats, agonizing over gray or brown, feathers or not, and by the time we left the area, I was long past caring about hats, and more concerned with getting back to place our bets on the next race. Halfway there, we made a pit stop at the port-a-johns.
Helen is also a slow learner—despite knowing me for several years now, she still made the crucial mistake of telling me how much she HATES using port-a-johns.
While we were waiting, a guy came out and said, with his eyes watering like he’d been cutting an onion, “I know they’re not supposed to be great, but that was awful!”
“Why? Did someone take a crap in there?” I asked, trying to find something to say.
He looked at me in pure wonderment and nodded. “Who does that in one of those?” he whispered, and walked away.
Helen’s eyes bugged out and she looked like she might bolt, but somehow she summoned her courage and went in anyway. Must have been all those beers–liquid courage, on so many levels.
As soon as Helen was inside, Stacie and I looked at each other, grinned and took action. Stacie went to the back and I went to the front of Helen’s port-a-john, and we banged on the walls like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse were thundering by.
Helen screamed.
Stacie and I ran, hiding around the corner. Predictably, Helen came storming out of the port-a-john, strutting her angry 5-foot-3-self across the field.
As she yelled at us and pointed her finger, we couldn’t help but double over laughing—
Helen, jaunty new brown hat slightly askew, was trailing a 3-foot ribbon of toilet paper from her shoe.
While it may be a location joke (you had to be there), to us, it was funny.
When you’re an adult, these moments don’t come nearly as often as they do when you’re a kid. Kids know how to belly laugh, and they don’t care who sees them or how loud they are. As adults, we may occasionally have those laughing fits that make you cry, but we usually try to hide them behind our hands or we leave the room. This time, I didn’t do either. I let out my full-throttle laugh, which as you may know, is pretty freakin’ loud. I’m sure people were staring, appalled at our behavior at such a dignified event—and I don’t care. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and it was wonderful.
So thank you Helen, for sacrificing your dignity (albeit unwillingly). And thanks to Stacie, who laughed right along with me. Gifts don’t always arrive with a card and a song—sometimes they arrive on a ribbon of toilet paper.
*Names have been changed to protect my friends’ professional images. Now, if we could just get rid of all those pictures with red cups…
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Bermuda, Caribbean, diversity, humor, islands, office etiquette, parties, south, southern, speaking skills, subourbonmom, tourism, travel
Nature has balances: night and day, sunshine and rain, Quiet Talkers…and me.
For whatever reason, I am “blessed” with a loud, scratchy voice, and a Woody Woodpecker laugh that reverberates around a room somewhere near the decibel level of a Who concert. Oh don’t get me wrong, it’s come in handy a few times, like when I was coaching and lifeguarding. Now, however, it’s a little bit of an issue.
We were recently in Bermuda for a work event, and I realized I’d forgotten how quiet Bermudians can be. I understand why Bermudians talk the way they do—softly, leaning in slightly, as if someone might overhear the conversation and report it to the Royal Gazette. Actually, that is exactly what can happen when you have 60,000 alcoholics, er, residents, clinging to a rock in the middle of the Atlantic. That’s a lot of folks on a 20-square-mile island with something to say, which they do with a wit that is funny and brutal at the same time.
I used to live in Bermuda, so I know how loud we Americans can sound to the untrained ear. Eventually, after three years or so of being there, I got pretty good at lowering my voice, but that skill has clearly been neglected since we moved.
When it comes to social events, my friend Bruce has a favorite saying: “If you’re at a party and you can’t find the asshole, it’s probably you.”
Um, I’m pretty sure the people at the event last week in Bermuda thought it was me. There were about 40 Bermudians in the room, and I’m fairly certain everyone turned at one point or another in the evening and tried to figure out one of three things:
1) how they could rescue the poor Quiet Talker stuck with me;
2) who that woman was with the man-voice was and why wasn’t she wearing her hearing aide? OR
3) who let the Southern version of Fran Drescher into the party?
At first I was annoyed, and toyed with the idea of talking in my fake Long Island accent that makes my Southern skin crawl. (“Oh my Gaawud, Vinny…would you look at this gaawbage? I could get this at home for ‘tree daawllahs.”) But I was at work and had a professional image to maintain, so I decided to study the Bermudian Quiet Talker technique instead.
I have to say you Quiet Talkers have a way of drawing people in to listen to you that I envy. I never did figure out just what it was, except possibly my natural American inferiority complex, or maybe my American penchant for British accents, but either way I remained captivated.
Unfortunately, your verbal sparring is wasted on Loud Talkers. When you zing that witty insult at us, we often aren’t sure if we heard you correctly…so most of the time, we’ll just keep on plowing ahead, oblivious to your skills.
Yes, we are clearly two very different social species, but if nature didn’t provide some balance, and there were only Loud Talkers like me, the world would sound like a forest full of crows (or a tree full of Kiskadees, for you Bermudians), cawing and squawking at each other all day long. If there were only Quiet Talkers, the world would be filled with misunderstandings, because someone misheard someone else, rednecks would have to find some other way to communicate after a beer or six, and sports stadiums would sound like churches.
So in the interest of peace, diversity, and keeping sports teams employed, let’s keep the conversation going–we Loud Talkers will keep leaning in to hear what you have to say, and you Quiet Talkers keep leaning back and listening.
If the conversation stops, the silence will be deafening.
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, cars, driving, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, road rage, rules of the road, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, traffic, travel, turn signals
Driving around with brand new teenage drivers, or soon-to-be-drivers can be like hanging out with an alcoholic at a party who’s just gotten back on the wagon. There is an enormous amount of self-righteousness packed into one place.
“Mom, you’re going over the speed limit.”
“Mom, the light turned green. Put your phone down.”
“Mom, I think that policeman is trying to wave you over….mom? Mom? Why have your eyes gone black??”
One of my biggest driving pet peeves is people who don’t use turn signals, especially at stoplights. FYI People—they are not optional or just a courtesy! They are required by law!
I can’t tell you how many drivers have seen me yelling and gesturing (with my windows safely up) as they paused in the middle of the intersection, looking bewildered as everyone waits for them to go straight because they forgot to put their turn signal on.
Daughter #1, our newest licensed driver, is now beginning to understand my frustration, and has come up with some of her own creative descriptions of these drivers, none of which can be printed here.
Daughter #2 however, has more fun pointing out the times when I myself forget to use my signal (as if!), or when, according to her, I wait to long to use it. The other day, we were getting ready to turn onto our street when apparently I didn’t use my signal until too late.
Daughter #1: “You didn’t use your signal, Mom.”
Me: “Yes, I did.”
Daughter #2: “Well, you waited long enough.”
Me: “Don’t mess with me today. It’s too hot.”
Daughter #2: “Why? What are you gonna do?”
Me: “Just–don’t. It’s not worth it.”
Long pause…
Daughter #2: “It’s worth it a little bit.”
Sigh……so please, in the interests of keeping people safe, and because playing chicken in the middle of an intersection isn’t cool, use your turn signals. IN the words of one of my youth group leaders back in the day, WWJD?
Subourbon Mom 
