When I’m on the go, I often record anything interesting that pops into my head on my phone in the notes app. Scrolling through it recently, looking for ideas for my writing class, I came across an entry from February 8, 2020, three weeks before the world changed, before COVID-19 rocked us all.
It seemed fitting to share it (and a couple others around that time) since I’m flying back to Texas today. No sweats this trip, just jeans, an upgrade.
I have finally succumbed to wearing sweats on the plane. My mother would die. The lowest of low.
They announced there was someone on board allergic to peanuts, so no one was to open or carry peanuts on the plane.
Seriously? The guy in row 24 (that’s me) can affect the person in row 10?
Is that an allergy or a full on phobia/panic attack in crisis? Can the smell of peanuts wafting up the aisle send someone into anaphylactic shock?
Boarding group 5. Again.
I’ve decided to drink my coffee with heavy whipping cream. It makes it THAT MUCH BETTER.
FULL FAT IS THE ANSWER.
When you buy in orbitz, no frills, you always end up with the middle seat. It’s fine, I can deal. Not my favorite, but ok. You still get a stroop waffle.
I fell asleep right off the bat. Holding my coffee, that was only a quarter full, I eventually dropped it over the edge of the seat. Not before it dribbled down the seat under me. High five for the camo sweat pants. Wearing jeans it would be obvious. The net to hold magazines, or coffee, or your stroop waffle, looks like a brassiere three sizes too small. It sits away from you, below your knees. What can you put in it besides a fucking napkin? They’ve made everything smaller when flying, even the magazine net that’s not big enough for a magazine. Luckily I didn’t spill any on the girl next to the window. Her converse are sparkly white. The guy at the aisle. I don’t know what he took, but I want some. He’s been out before I even sat down. His elbows have invaded my space from the beginning. I finished my book yet can’t change the channel on my screen because his deadweight arm is covering it.
I moved it anyway, and gave him a pointy elbow kick of my own.
I’ve gotten tougher as I’ve aged. I give a shit a lot less.
When faced with a crossroads, ask yourself, “WWCD?”
What would Cracker do?
I’ve been buying all of my clothes on ebay these days. It’s easy to do when you sort of have a standard issue wardrobe-a certain brand of jeans, turtlenecks, one style of dress. So far I’ve hit the jackpot every time, except once. This is the problem with some jeans-they can be the same size on the label, but they are physically two different sizes. I ordered a dark blue pair that were tight at the ankles. I had to really fight to get them on. Do a few squats and ple-aa’s. Slowly staggering around the bedroom trying to force them (sweet talk) them to go against gravity. I could barely get the ends over my foot. It was like putting on a sock all the way up my leg. After a brief workout, I got them on. Because they’re so stretchy, they buttoned up fine. That was the only easy part. I walked out and asked Russ, “Well, what do you think?”
He was silent for a few seconds before finally responding “Hmmm.”
What’s that? What do you mean? Too tight?
Well. They’re tight alright. It’s like your ass has a triple chin.
Somewhat affronted, by the honesty, or the truth of it, I’m not sure, but I went and had a look.
Sure enough, with my back to the mirror, I could see one big scoop of ice cream followed by two smaller ones below.
Still, I had hope.
I rationalized they might loosen up. (They couldn’t possibly get any tighter). In the end I thought, well I don’t give a fuck. I got them on and that counts. Big words coming from someone who hasn’t managed to ditch her ego enough to actually walk outside with them on. In the corner of my mind”Do you really want to be that woman?
The debate continues.
Got a free facelift with the force of the car. Almost met Jesus, but he decided not today. I wasn’t ready for heaven, or hell. Earth was still shaping me.
I always feel closer to God at Christmas. On the plane. In the car. I call to him ceaselessly sometimes under my breath, so people aren’t concerned I’m born again. Or desperate. On the brink.
Strawberry shortage. It’s a world crisis. Because our winter has been so cold. Told by a teenage boy with braces and a face full of strawberries, very serious. The Napoleon Dynamite of strawberries lives in Houston.
When I got to the airport this morning, I had to wait for the airline kiosks to kick on before I could check in. Then I waited for security to set up the TSA queue for the day. Dunkin’ Donuts wasn’t open, neither was Green Beans Coffee.
Do you know what was open?? That’s right, Starbucks. The only vendor ready for biz. So if zombies do exist, that’s where you’ll find them, and at 4 am, they are positively cheerful.