Air Curmudgeon

I spent the weekend in Chicago for a variety of reasons, and though none involved my upcoming wedding, many conversations with friends and family centered around the celebration and the general future. The following questions were posed by family members during the trip:

"Are you pregnant?" This, I think, was inspired by the fact that the main reason I was in town was Amanda's baby shower. Though by definition that makes Amanda pregnant. Not me.

"What is the point of getting married if you're keeping your name and not having a traditional wedding?" To which the only response is a smile and a lengthy sip of one's Bloody Mary.

"What do you want to name your kids?" What kids?

After a Mother's Day brunch involving said Bloody Marys, I passed out for an hour and then prepared to go to the airport. The 3:20pm flight was delayed, then it was delayed again, and again, and by the time we boarded the plane at 5pm and I discovered I had a middle seat, I was really ready to leave. The girl next to me tried to start a conversation, but I quickly shut her down, either with my blank stare or my chicken pesto sandwich breath. Not sure, don't care. She opened the airline magazine.

Two hours later, we found ourselves still in Chicago and being asked to deplane due to a mechanical problem with the aircraft. I handled this well, mostly because I would rather be inconvenienced on the ground than airborne in a defective plane. And another bonus of not dying in a potential plane crash, I was able to get my seat reassigned to an aisle.

I was making myself comfortable in my freedom seat on the new plane when the older woman assigned to the middle seat showed up. Her lips seemed puckered into permanent disapproval, all aimed at me. What had I done with the girl in 11D?

"They told us we couldn't switch seats," she said accusingly.

"Really. Well, I have a new boarding pass and everything," I told her, resisting the urge to wave it around as proof.

She settled in and looked at the young girl in the window seat. "Here we are again," she said amiably enough, though I could feel her staring at me, and then across the aisle at two empty seats.

"I'm going to move over there."

"You should," I said. "Be comfortable."

"I'll just ask first," she said pointedly.

The flight attendant confirmed that the seats were in fact available, and the woman began collecting her 97 small-to-midsize bags. She left a pink clutch on the seat, so I picked it up to hand it to her. She snatched it away, without a thank you, as I'm sure she thought that in addition to being a seat stealer, I was also after her collection of coins and her makeup from 1942. Because after waiting 5 hours to leave O'Hare, what I really want to do is rip off a little old lady so I can buy an airline snack pack with nickels.


*Catherine, do not take offense at this. You are, in heart and mind, much younger than this woman.

Happy Friday!

The blogosphere is a better place today, people.

Dan has arrived.

Sarah by any other name

I have thought extensively about taking Rob's name when we get married. I have written it on napkins and post-its, said it out loud, carved it into wet cement late at night when no one was looking, scrambling away when I heard the police sirens rounding the corner, so fearful was I that they would find out where I had hidden the drug money...wait, movie. But I did recently write it several times on a post-it.

Here's the thing. It looks like someone else's name. And I guess that's the point. We're embarking on this new life together, a new family. But how come I have to change my entire name when all Rob has to change is his habits, his bedtime, and his diet?

Some time ago, shortly after we got engaged, I polled 5 of my unmarried girlfriends to get their take on the issue. I asked them if they would change their names and if it would be an easy decision, one requiring some thought, or one requiring a lot of thought.

Considering this obviously representative sample (of women between the ages of 25-31 with whom I have gotten drunk more than ten times), I was surprised by the unanimity of the responses.

Friend one: will change name, requires some thought
Friend two: will change name, easy decision
Friend three: will probably change name, amount of thought depends on what the name is (Friend three is still a bit traumatized after dating a guy with the last name Dworkbinder.)
Friend four: will change name, easy decision
Friend five: still owes me an answer and this was at least 7 months ago. Dude.

For me, it took a great deal of thought, but ultimately I have decided not to change my name. And Rob has decided not to change his habits. We're both happy.

They call me the Middle Man

Me: Hi, dad. What are you doing?

Joe: Watching the Cubs game.

Rob [enters living room]: Why are you calling your dad during the Cubs game?

Me: He doesn’t mind.

Me to Joe: Did you see Barack Obama on Meet The Press this weekend?

Joe: I did. He was very good.

Me: I thought so, too. Rob gave him an A+.

Rob: It was just an A. And stop speaking for me.

Me: Stop interrupting my phone call.

Rob: Ask your dad when they’re coming back to visit.

Me to Joe: Rob wants to know when you’re coming to visit.

Rob: They haven’t been here in more than a year. Tell him they get an F.

Me: Rob gives you an F.

Joe: I’ll look at the calendar.

Conversation continues. Joe teaches me a new word.

Me: Bye dad.

Joe: Bye. Have a good week. Tell Rob I miss him.

Cinco de Mayo!

If you think this is just a holiday that means go out, drink margaritas, and eat enchiladas, then you are wrong. Dead wrong.

You can also have tacos or a burrito.

But you should probably learn a little bit about the holiday since you are using it as a reason to imbibe instead of going to pilates class (yes, this means you.)

Take this quiz so that you can say you really earned those margaritas.

Happy Friday!

Grab some Clorox wipes, people. I have just learned that an office keyboard has more bacteria than a toilet seat. Since the study was done in 2002, I'm guessing some of you already know this...but it was horrifying news to me. I will now proceed to wrap my hands in plastic and continue my work.

This post was brought to you by Clorox and the word Ew.

Foiled again

I went to the doctor yesterday. It was just for a check-up, so they took my blood pressure, monitored my heart beat, weighed me, and...here was the potentially exciting part...measured my height. I know this is ridiculous, but whenever someone measures my height (because it happens so often), I get a sudden rush of hope like maybe, just maybe, I've grown. I will be 30 years old this year. If I've grown, up is not the direction. And although I am well aware of this, my ability to delude myself wins out every time.

"How tall am I?" I asked the possibly mute 14-year-old medical assistant. I think she was a little thrown off by my exuberance, but she gamely gave me the answer.

Alas. Still 5'4".