I have returned. In my absence, New York was snowed upon. Can it be a coincidence? I think not.

Because I love you, citizens of the New York area, I will agree to stay put. For now. However, if it snows again, I might begin to doubt my magical weather-related powers (if not, of course, my many other, well-documented, non-meteorological powers) and go on a weekend trip to Boston or similar. You’ve been warned.

Anyway, I’m back from a week in San Fran. I was there visiting my sister, who is, as I’ve previously stated on this here blog, right up the pole and now everyone knows what she’s been up to. We find out whether the baby is a boy or a girl on Tuesday. I say it’s a girl. She says it’s a boy. She seems to think that being the child’s mother gives her some sort of insight into all of this, to which I say, phooey. I say phooey while having a beer, BTW, because aunties are allowed.

I am glad she wasn’t with me on the trip home, however. There was a monstrous child on the plane from SFO to JFK. He kept pounding on the door while I was trying to pee. I don’t know if I’m told you about this before, but I have pee issues in public bathrooms. It takes a minute of humming and counting and sticking out my tongue to make my lady flower relax enough to free the pee. Pounding on the door? Not conducive to this process.

I nearly gave up. Then I thought, no way am I going to let some airplane-bathroom-door-pounder make me give myself a UTI. Also, my seatmate, who was on the aisle, seemed to have cancer. She wore a kerchief around her (apparently bald) head and kept nodding off with her mouth open in a really distressing fashion. I spent half the flight willing her chest to inflate. It was exhausting. I certainly wasn’t going to ask the poor woman to get up so I could pee again, all because of a door pounder who hates cancer victims.

You see the issue.

Anyway, I was finally able to go. Afterward, I wiped the sweat from my brow, rearranged my air travel headband (easier than a pony-tail, less homeless looking than leaving my hair to frizz in reconditioned air) and flung the door open.

In front of me was a little boy, about three feet tall. He had big brown eyes and one of those haircuts that looks like it was accomplished by putting a soup bowl on the kid’s head and cutting around it. He was adorable. I wanted to strangle him.

“Was that you?” I demanded.

“Yeth,” he said, in a charming little lisp.

I squinted at him a moment, trying to determine his age. He looked to be about six. If he’d been seven or older, I would have gently suggested to him that he be euthanized. But it’s important, after all, to have standards of behavior, and in the end, I’m just not the sort of person who goes around suggesting things like that to six-year-olds. I snorted and pushed past to my seat.

(But next year. Next year. He better stay off my flight.)

Published by Jen Hubley Luckwaldt

I'm a freelance writer and editor.

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