Fly Me to the Moon

There is nothing like a Girls Weekend. Especially if The Girls are lucky enough to stretch it into 5 days, fly to warmer climes, and stay in first class accommodations. The possibilities are infinitely more bountiful under these circumstances.

And it is that time of year, for THAT particular trip, with a few steady-ender gal pals and a few less frequent flyers who round out the bevy of rare beauty and humor.

And this is how I come to be in the airport on a Thursday afternoon, with Joy, and what seems like all of humanity. The tattooed guy with the mullet and the wife beater, who has no ability to lower his cell phone conversation volume below stadium level. The pretty boy carrying his mother’s paisley purse and poodle. The dozen or so passengers who can’t distinguish between what is a carry-on and what is a steamer trunk and hold up the whole line while they have to gate check at the last minute. I am sure that is most convenient for them. For the rest of us, not so much.

Thankfully, boarding is otherwise uneventful, and the mullet with the phone is not sharing our row.

The flight is another story.

Because our flight is being served by the Angry Steward.

It is bad enough that you have to pay extra to take a bag on the plane. (Isn’t it sort of understood that if you are going somewhere you can’t just arrive without your stuff? It’s not like clothing and shoes are optional – unless of course your destination is a nudist colony – but you do eventually have to leave the nudies and come home, right?) And as if to remind you that things are tough all over, pillows and blankets are no longer the norm, and movies must be purchased – well, at least the earplugs. (The movies will show for free. Hearing them is extra.)

Now we have the Angry Steward.

Joy and I first knew we were in for a bumpy ride when the Angry Steward encouraged us, to ensure a more smoothly running flight, to limit our trips to the bathroom.

An idiot says what?

Show of hands, please. Does anyone know anyone who visits the onboard restroom for any reason other than pure bladder bursting, colon blowing necessity? I would hold it from here to Tokyo if I could to avoid a trip to the little claustrophobic germ capsule, but I can’t. So I go. And because the ironically named Courtesy Cart might be delayed for a millisecond while someone’s Aunt Tillie shuffles back from a quick check of the Depends, Angry Steward wants to make it seem like we might all be in trouble if we ask for a hall pass too often or “for no apparent reason.”

And because there are exactly two such bathrooms in steerage, and no one wants to use the one in the back where the flight attendants hang out with scalding pots of coffee for fear that someone will go all Steven Slater without warning, there is a crowd of 3 forming near the one mid-plane.

And here comes Angry Steward, thankfully not holding a pot of coffee. He takes to the microphone, and jarring anyone lucky enough to have fallen asleep in his impossibly narrow and upright chair, reminds us, with ever so pissy a tone, that congregating in the aisles is strictly prohibited.

Bunch of rebels. Taking an unauthorized leak and loitering all in the same trip to the head. Nice.
My favorite injustice though, had absolutely no impact to me personally. It was just a power play exercised by the Angry Steward, over something that the attendants with the more pleasant dispositions casually refrained from exercising themselves.

Seated in front of Joy and me was a member of our US Armed Forces with a working dog on a leash. The soldier had everything he needed for the dog and the dog had an assigned seat that presumably had been paid for, even if it was paid for by Uncle Sam.

The dog was young, just over a year old. A beautiful pup with a gorgeous well cared for coat. He was perfectly quiet and very well behaved. Never heard so much as a peep from him (which can’t be said for the guy across the aisle who, oblivious to his own noises because of his headphones, loudly snorted phlegm to the back of his brain cavity every 60 seconds or so throughout the flight) And the ladies around the handsome young soldier and his pup were charmed. Heaped them with attention. Bought his snacks. Offered to buy him drinks, which he declined.

And just to pee all over it, Angry Steward pranced down the aisle and told the soldier that his dog could not be on the seat and had to sit in the (impossibly small, barely-fits-my-knees) space in front of the seat. For the remaining four hours of the flight.

What? In case he doo-dooed on the seats that countless people have thrown up on? In case his nails dug into the fine imported pleather? Really?

The soldier complied. The dog was obedient and remained quiet.

But little old ladies up and down the cabin were preparing to throw their scalding coffee on the Angry Steward.

We can't manage to reliably reach a destination on time but gosh darn it while the plane is in the air and there is nowhere to run, we are going to make sure every passenger is as compliant and submissive as Patty Hearst. I guess some people are so desperate to be the boss of something they'll even settle for 180 captives a mile in the air.