spastic hell printer must die

I hate flying

In order to distract myself from the incredible lingering pain in my left ear, I will tell you the story of my Seattle-Chicago flight yesterday. I have to admit that I slept for three of the four hours on the plane but that doesn't mean I didn't get irritated.

First of all, American Airlines does this weird thing with "boarding groups" now. Rather than just board rows x through y, they board a group number which presumably includes those same rows. So there was a bitchy little family next to me in the waiting area: mother plus two pre-teen children, and a man with an alarming British accent who I can only assume was auditioning for the role of step-father by bringing mom and the gang out to jolly old England. They stood near me and discussed their seats. Sure enough, they're in my row and the one in front of me. (Usually, I try to be cheerful and friendly when surrounded by strangers but yesterday was not so good. I had just been raped for a bottle of NyQuil and just wanted to swig it and sleep in my window seat.) So they're discussing their seats and moving into line. Their group had not been called. I knew this because my group had not been called and in fact we were still two groups away. Fine, they cut the line. What do I care? Except I finally get to board and arrive at my row to see the mother sitting in my window seat. So I point this out to her, patiently, sweetly. She gives me a look of pain and asks if I'm sure. Yes. I'm sure. I've been sure since I booked the ticket a month ago. 16F is a window seat, and I always take the window seat. "It's just that I have so much stuff crammed under the seat," she whines pitifully. I resist the temptation to tell her that if she had either looked at her ticket or not cut the line, she wouldn't have that problem. And I stand, and wait, in the aisle with people stacking up behind me as this bitch begrudgingly relinquishes my seat. She sits back down in her now center seat and continues to bitch about how she's sure she got a window seat. I can SEE her damned tickets. 16D and 16E. No windows. "On Super 80s 'F' is always a window seat," I point out helpfully. "I KNOW that," she spits, "but they TOLD me I had a window seat!"

By now I've ripped the protective plastic off my incredibly expensive bottle of NyQuil and I'm just ready to sleep so I dig around for my head phones. Before I can block out the shrieking harpy she has leaned over my seat to talk to her daughter in the window seat in front of me. She positively coos to the girl, "I'm so sorry I can't sit with you on this flight, honey. We'll be together on the next plane." Again, I'm tempted to point out that this conversation is only possible because you're not directly behind your daughter and unable to communicate with her save shoulder tapping (which can just as easily be accomplished from the new seat). But I hold my tongue.

So then I slept, and slept well in fact. But as I was trying to fall asleep, and immediately after I woke up I was consumed with wondering what the bitch expected me to do. Did she really believe that she was entitled to my seat? Was I really expected to wave it off and smile and take the aisle just because she thought she had bought a window seat? I'm still fuming about this.

And now I'm done. Let us never speak of that flight again.