Mariah Carey Strikes Again

*whimper*

My ass is officially kicked.  Next time I consider taking a gig to cover a six city tour in three weeks, can you please punch me in the kayak?  Hard?  With brass knuckles?

If you aren’t allowed to take decongestants, you probably shouldn’t fly cross country with a sinus infection.  I blew out my ear on the descent into San Francisco and I haven’t heard a single thing since.  That worked out pretty well for me on more than one occasion.

I really hate flying.  It makes me pissy.

I really hate being sick.  It makes me whiny.

So just in case you kids are bad at adding, sick Elly on a plane is one pissy, whiny bitch.  The chick that had decided to fill seat 23B (the middle seat – MY SEAT!) with all thirty-seven of her leopard print, Prada rip-off bags was clearly incapable of simple addition.  Or empathy.

The flight was oversold – of course.  All the overhead bins were full – of course.  I assessed the woman in the aisle seat of my row.  She was assessing her own cleavage.  Awesome.

I’d guess she was in her late 50’s, possibly early 60’s.  She was clad in black spandex from her ankle to just above her nipples.  A thick silver belt encircled her thick waist.  She mercilessly clicked her soft pink talons against the metal.  The only thing covering her shoulders was a brittle cascade of permed and color-treated hair that looked as though it might snap off at any moment.

“So this is Mariah Carey in twenty years,” I thought to myself.  Awesome.

As I neared the row, we made eye contact.  I could see her mind whirling as she took in my red nose and the tissues clutched in my hand.  The mat, coral veneer on her lips cracked as she unconsciously raised her lips into a snarl.

I smiled politely.  “That’s me,” I said while waving my tissue filled hand at the seat she was using as her personal storage locker.  She batted her spider-like lashes several times, feigning confusion.  “Can I leave my backpack in the seat while I try to find a place for my luggage?”

“I’m not really ready yet,” she responded, turning her attention back to her chest.

The line behind me became increasingly restless.  At a loss, I moved further into the plane in search of an available bin.  It took me nearly ten minutes of shoving and waiting to return to my row.  MCin20 was not at all pleased to see me again.  I guess she assumed I would just jump off the plane and wait to see if the next one was a little less crowded, mass transit style.

Douche.

Once she realized I had no qualms about climbing over her, she stood to let me slide pass.  I dropped my backpack to the floor and set about moving my in-flight materials into the seat back pocket.  Then I remembered zombies lived in there.  I stole a glance at MCin20, then decided she was scary enough to keep the undead at bay.

But she caught me looking at her.  I guess she took that as an invitation to criticize.  “You know, you’re going to have to fit that bag under the seat in front of you.”

My already open mouth (can’t breathe through the nose these days) widened another inch.  “You know, I’ve been on a plane before.”  I glared at her around the tissues crammed into my nostrils to catch any errant drips.  “It fucking fits.”

So yeah, we started off on the wrong foot.  I suppose I could have played nice, but the math just wasn’t in this woman’s favor.  Also, she was a cunt.  Clearly.  I slapped on my headphones within moments of take-off and tried to go to my happy place (you know, sitting on Justin Timberlake’s lap at a Police concert next to my very own box of wine, same as your happy place I’m sure).

Things got even better after my first coughing fit.  MCin20 shot me scathing looks and slid as far into the aisle as physically possible.  I giggled pettily when the passing beverage cart clocked her in the back of the head.

As the trapped waitress stewardess approached our row, I lowered my headphones to request some soda.  Another coughing fit erupted before I could say anything.  MCin20 was in my grill in an instant.

“You know, I’m prone to sinus infections,” she scolded.

“Congratulations, you must be so proud,” I mumbled between hacks.  She shot me another glare, her fury increasing.

I thought – Look lady, what part of me do you really think wants to be on this plane hacking up a lung and sitting next to old skanks with Heather Locklear complexes rather than in my bed with a cup of soup and a kitten?  I don’t want me here, either.  Oh yeah, when you went to the bathroom, I licked your tray and shoved all my used tissues in your busted-ass Prada knock-off bags.

Instead I said, “This is a sinus infection.  I’m not contagious.  Chill out.”

“What medication are you on?”

Well a pretty high dose of Zoloft to control my rage and some Olanzapine to combat my schizophrenic tendencies.  Say, how often do you moisturize? “Some sort of antibiotic.  I don’t know.  You don’t need to either.  I’m.  Not.  Contagious.”

“Fine.  I’m glad I asked.”

Oh me too, lady.  What a load off my mind.

Anyway I’m back.  I’m still sick, but I’m back.  And I’ve got stories….

And no, I’m not contagious.  Well, the sinus part isn’t contagious.  You should probably still have that rash looked at.