Flying
First of all, let me mention that it is a dream of mine to be a Medevac nurse. You know, one who goes out in a helicopter to critical situations and airlifts the injured to the nearest hospital/trauma center. Also does critical patient transfers (ie, Baby A is born at X General Hospital at 23 weeks gestation; since X General Hospital is in the boonies with no NICU for miles, Baby A is Medevacced to Generic Medical Center, which does have one). I don't mind helicopters.
I hate flying. I hate, hate, HATE flying.
Specifically, I hate flying on commercial airlines. I don't care if my chances of being on a hijacked plane are slim to none. I do not take comfort in the fact that I, a 5' 2" female of Irish descent am pulled aside for a "random security check" (on EVERY flight I've taken since 9-11, I might add!) while various persons of the only ethnic background known to fly passenger planes into buildings full of innocent civilians are allowed to hop on my flight with nary a blink of an eye from the TSA geniuses.
The last time I flew, it was August. I was flying into Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. The temperature in Dallas was approximately 120 degrees F with 99.5% humidity. I exaggerate, but only slightly.
I was flying out of Midway in Chicago. With a cat. And wearing a) bobby pins in my hair, b) glasses, and c) an underwire bra.
The cat (the story behind why the cat was flying with me is long and complicated) is, of course, accompanying me in the cabin. I might add that I had to pay $50 in order to get the airline to allow this, despite the fact that not ONE MEMBER of the crew noticed the fact that the cat was on the plane till I got off and a stewardess asked where I got my purse (which was, in fact, a dog-purse held closed with safety pins).
The cat is drugged in order to keep the crew from deciding halfway through the trip that our stop is 10, 000 feet up. The cat is showing all the signs of using heavy tranquilizers: hugely dilated pupils, inability to walk in a straight line (or at all), a remarkably positive outlook on life in general (despite being contained in a dog purse held closed by safety pins and having two HUGE German shepherds barking their fool heads off a foot and a half away from the owner of said cat), etc, etc. I decide to sign over my firstborn child to the vet who gave her these tranquilizers. The woman is a genius.
So, we get to Security. Bear in mind that this is just after the liquids-on-planes scare, so Security is slower than usual, even for Midway. (That's really saying something, considering the usual rate of Midway security).
So, I am informed that I must remove my glasses, my bobby pins, any jewelry and my shoes, get the cat out of the carrier so that the carrier can be Xrayed, and walk through the metal detector.
I would have payed to watch this.
Bear in mind that I am legally blind without my glasses. I was also in the process of growing my hair out from a short, layered cut, so when my hair wasn't contained by pins it stood on end in its curly, wavy, messy glory.
So here I am, attempting to walk through (vs. into) the metal detector, clutching a cat to my chest, with my hair on end. And the detector goes off.
I am (ahem) well-endowed. The only kind of bra I've ever found that...works properly...is a wonderful underwire one with silicon inserts on the shoulders. If Playtex ever stops making that bra, I will spend hundreds of dollars stocking up on them before the stores are out.
Suffice to say that by the time I finish with the TSA gal, I feel strongly that we should be married. Then the screener went through my makeup case, making certain that my eyeliner was, in fact, not a threat to national security.
The cat is then forcibly shut in the carrying case, and I am off to DFW. One totally uneventful flight later, I deal with a moron on a power trip (TSA job description) who feels that I am unreasonable in my expectations of at having my luggage arrive at the same airport at the same time as I get there. 45 minute later, I get my luggage ("Oops, we accidentally put it on the baggage corral from Talahassee.")
Arriving in DFW, I realize that I have nothing at my apartment for the cat. No kitty box, no cat food, no food dishes, etc. This could be a problem. The cat is still sufficiently tranquilized that I don't want to leave her alone.
No problem! I'll just take her into Walmart with me! Despite their no-pets rule, the Walmart in question did not stop me. They may have been more concerned with the large numbers of youths in hoodies and baggy jeans hanging out in the parking lot.
And I'm off to Chicago again. This time, I hope to return without drugged domestic pets. Or nondomestic pets. Or any person/critter/animal.
I hate flying. I hate, hate, HATE flying.
Specifically, I hate flying on commercial airlines. I don't care if my chances of being on a hijacked plane are slim to none. I do not take comfort in the fact that I, a 5' 2" female of Irish descent am pulled aside for a "random security check" (on EVERY flight I've taken since 9-11, I might add!) while various persons of the only ethnic background known to fly passenger planes into buildings full of innocent civilians are allowed to hop on my flight with nary a blink of an eye from the TSA geniuses.
The last time I flew, it was August. I was flying into Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. The temperature in Dallas was approximately 120 degrees F with 99.5% humidity. I exaggerate, but only slightly.
I was flying out of Midway in Chicago. With a cat. And wearing a) bobby pins in my hair, b) glasses, and c) an underwire bra.
The cat (the story behind why the cat was flying with me is long and complicated) is, of course, accompanying me in the cabin. I might add that I had to pay $50 in order to get the airline to allow this, despite the fact that not ONE MEMBER of the crew noticed the fact that the cat was on the plane till I got off and a stewardess asked where I got my purse (which was, in fact, a dog-purse held closed with safety pins).
The cat is drugged in order to keep the crew from deciding halfway through the trip that our stop is 10, 000 feet up. The cat is showing all the signs of using heavy tranquilizers: hugely dilated pupils, inability to walk in a straight line (or at all), a remarkably positive outlook on life in general (despite being contained in a dog purse held closed by safety pins and having two HUGE German shepherds barking their fool heads off a foot and a half away from the owner of said cat), etc, etc. I decide to sign over my firstborn child to the vet who gave her these tranquilizers. The woman is a genius.
So, we get to Security. Bear in mind that this is just after the liquids-on-planes scare, so Security is slower than usual, even for Midway. (That's really saying something, considering the usual rate of Midway security).
So, I am informed that I must remove my glasses, my bobby pins, any jewelry and my shoes, get the cat out of the carrier so that the carrier can be Xrayed, and walk through the metal detector.
I would have payed to watch this.
Bear in mind that I am legally blind without my glasses. I was also in the process of growing my hair out from a short, layered cut, so when my hair wasn't contained by pins it stood on end in its curly, wavy, messy glory.
So here I am, attempting to walk through (vs. into) the metal detector, clutching a cat to my chest, with my hair on end. And the detector goes off.
I am (ahem) well-endowed. The only kind of bra I've ever found that...works properly...is a wonderful underwire one with silicon inserts on the shoulders. If Playtex ever stops making that bra, I will spend hundreds of dollars stocking up on them before the stores are out.
Suffice to say that by the time I finish with the TSA gal, I feel strongly that we should be married. Then the screener went through my makeup case, making certain that my eyeliner was, in fact, not a threat to national security.
The cat is then forcibly shut in the carrying case, and I am off to DFW. One totally uneventful flight later, I deal with a moron on a power trip (TSA job description) who feels that I am unreasonable in my expectations of at having my luggage arrive at the same airport at the same time as I get there. 45 minute later, I get my luggage ("Oops, we accidentally put it on the baggage corral from Talahassee.")
Arriving in DFW, I realize that I have nothing at my apartment for the cat. No kitty box, no cat food, no food dishes, etc. This could be a problem. The cat is still sufficiently tranquilized that I don't want to leave her alone.
No problem! I'll just take her into Walmart with me! Despite their no-pets rule, the Walmart in question did not stop me. They may have been more concerned with the large numbers of youths in hoodies and baggy jeans hanging out in the parking lot.
And I'm off to Chicago again. This time, I hope to return without drugged domestic pets. Or nondomestic pets. Or any person/critter/animal.
posted by UbiCaritas at
4:53 PM
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