Saturday, April 16, 2011

Brassy thoughts from an airport...

Much like the bubonic plague, The Brassies are airborne. This family vacation is a no-brainer:  mercilessly invade high-functioning grandparents who are eager to fully engage the lil' Brassies and rip shit up sandcastle-style.  

I'm getting my bliggity blog on at about 12,000 feet thanks to in-flight wi-fi. Say wha?! When I first grasped this concept I just about turned inside out with excitement. My reaction to this $4.95 techno-marvel garnered me a long look of pity/disgust from The Husband--who's one gold star away from earning his platinum-grade Professional Flyer Businessman Wings from any and all major airlines.  Cut a un-caged hausfrau some slack. As far as I'm concerned in-flight wi-fi is up there with penicillin. Currently the lil' Brassies each have a thin line of drool down their chins so I know the DVD players lulled them into a catatonic state.  Florence Welch is serenading me through noise-cancelling head phones. I'm in a relative state of bliss;  for all I care  The Husband could be rendezvousing with a flight attendant in the lavatory right now.

Let's take this time to review my observations from the airport, the mothership of all people-watching. Here's what I discovered:

Gold stars to whoever put the outlets in the seats at the gate. Well done.

Major points deducted for the shoddy clean-up from what was obviously
 a very heinous and violent crime.
  • Women over the age of 35, maybe 40: do not wear Uggs in public. Ever. I'd like to say any age, but that's not realistic. If you exercise your Ugg option (which I admit, I do from time to time) it should be when bringing trash to the curb, dropping kids at school in  pajamas disguised as lounge-wear, or the like. Temperatures must be cold enough to warrant shearling footwear. A 65 degree day in April is not cold. If you're 60 plus years-old and don Uggs you look like an uber ass.  Especially with dark-wash mom-jeans tucked into your extra tall boots; coupled with a blue blazer with gold nautical buttons and a white polo with the color turned up James Spadder style,  all while sitting in first-class with your matching Louis Vuitton purse and duffel.  You know who are. You have heavily frosted hair. Stop it. NOW. Take them off and put your penny loafers back on.  Or your Tods. Or whatever.
  • If you wear a mini-skirt and six inch open-toed platform wedges to travel...with your half-crazed toddler...and then you teeter. And fall. I will not feel sorry for you. Or help you. And I may laugh at you. 
It's a busy week at the newsstand:
Jeff Bridges is still a totally hot, hairy, dude. Rock on Big Sexy.
Zach Galifianakis sports a very different beard, and it's sandy.
I was a fool to refuse Eric Bana's proposal of marriage.
Potter's back. Again.
I was a fool to refuse Adele's proposal of marriage.

The aforementioned cover people almost make up for Scott Disick.
Why Men's Fitness? Why?!
  • I feel sorry for you if you are traveling alone with a baby and a toddler. I will do whatever I can to help assistance is not a passive aggressive hint to shut your baby up. Babies are babies. Of course my aid is contingent on you being properly attired. That last part is a joke. Kind of.
  • Men wearing mesh gym shorts...commando, or "raw dawg" as The Husband calls it...should be heavily fined for indecent exposure. Offenders should be registered as sexual predators if said crime is committed in the presence of children.
  • Teenagers are aliens. And travel wearing pajamas.  In packs. They look miserable. They scurrr me somethin' fierce. I'm dreading having teenagers.
  • Don't fly to a major, warm-weather vacation destination during a school vacation week if you can't deal with other peoples' reasonably, and even well-behaved kids on a plane. If you do fly, you will inevitably sit next to/in front of/behind the most obnoxious kids on the plane. And you deserve it.
  • Male flight attendants get me every time.
  • If you are an overly-tanned, leather-faced man wearing a baby blue bandanna sweat-band style around you head, mirrored sunglasses inside, and a silver dolphin-tail necklace you're not going on vacation, you're going home.
  • For the love of Gawd, keep your effing kids off the luggage carousel.
More vacation thoughts to follow.  Florida is a hotbed of weirdness and my own personal playground in which I will mock all those I see with reckless abandon.

RHNY recap coming soon.

Much sandy, humpy, vacation love from me to you,

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