Even if you're not a mom?
For I am not a mom, nor a wife, and am starting to hit that age where people aren't as polite about pointing out my lack of such (coincidentally, also the age where you start getting all Gran Torino on all these damn people up on your damn lawn about it.) However, I do hope this won't preclude any chance of the random internet denizen reading this, for I can assure you that, even minus diaper rash and shared bank accounts, sometimes I do interesting things too! I write, I draw, I lift heavy shit inconsequential distances, and I can cook the hell out of some squash, all of which I can only assume will come up as I keep writing here. I play video games, watch entirely too much Netflix... um... I drive... and... okay, look, I quit smoking today because it seemed like it would be a good birthday gift to myself come the end of the month- a month tobacco-free! And yes, it sounded absolutely stellar as I was actively smoking on the veranda yesterday, however now? Not so good. So here I am, typing so hard my fingertips are bruising because it's either type blogs and be semi-productive or gnaw on things in a blind and unfocused rage, and we are running out of pens in this bitch.
So cut me some slack? I put pictures in here for you.
Ahem... BUT THAT'S NOT ALL...
I fly for a living! Excitement.
...well, before everyone starts picturing this, let me go ahead and out myself as a back-ender. Meaning, not the front end. The flight deck. Where the controlling of flying happens. No no, not I. I hang in the back of windowless jets and, essentially, tell people to push buttons. Faster, slower, moar, GODDAMNITTOOMUCH, you get the idea.
No. That is not the idea to have... but I'll take it.
For I am not a mom, nor a wife, and am starting to hit that age where people aren't as polite about pointing out my lack of such (coincidentally, also the age where you start getting all Gran Torino on all these damn people up on your damn lawn about it.) However, I do hope this won't preclude any chance of the random internet denizen reading this, for I can assure you that, even minus diaper rash and shared bank accounts, sometimes I do interesting things too! I write, I draw, I lift heavy shit inconsequential distances, and I can cook the hell out of some squash, all of which I can only assume will come up as I keep writing here. I play video games, watch entirely too much Netflix... um... I drive... and... okay, look, I quit smoking today because it seemed like it would be a good birthday gift to myself come the end of the month- a month tobacco-free! And yes, it sounded absolutely stellar as I was actively smoking on the veranda yesterday, however now? Not so good. So here I am, typing so hard my fingertips are bruising because it's either type blogs and be semi-productive or gnaw on things in a blind and unfocused rage, and we are running out of pens in this bitch.
So cut me some slack? I put pictures in here for you.
Ahem... BUT THAT'S NOT ALL...
I fly for a living! Excitement.
...well, before everyone starts picturing this, let me go ahead and out myself as a back-ender. Meaning, not the front end. The flight deck. Where the controlling of flying happens. No no, not I. I hang in the back of windowless jets and, essentially, tell people to push buttons. Faster, slower, moar, GODDAMNITTOOMUCH, you get the idea.
No. That is not the idea to have... but I'll take it.
ANYWAY. There's a lot of people I share these cramped, oscillating quarters with, for hours and hours, and when you are that close with people physically, it is very easy to bridge the gap and become close in a friendly way. Well, an "I don't hate you way." Or even a "I will ignore your humping of my chair's headrest while you try to hit those switches" way. Which really, is the best kind of BFF you can get.
But there is such a thing as too much closeness, and at flight level 35, it comes hard.
Come for the expository essays, stay for the "that's what she said!" jokes.
Aside from the random 'accidental' teabaggings, there are a few things that no one can help on the jet, and, hey man, that's acceptable. There's a toilet on board, and if you chose poorly at dinner last night and are encountering the dreaded drawstring butthole, well, just keep the little folding door closed and latched and spray a little courtesy Febreze around afterwards. Likewise for the other end- if you have to puke, well, that sucks, and here's hoping your brought a bag or aren't about to projectile vom all over an instructor or a maintenance dude. I once watched a dude hork down a pound bag of Skittles right before aerial refueling, and, lucky boy, also watched him taste that rainbow twice. Right into his own lap. We named him "Spackler" for the remainder of the TDY. But again, totally socially acceptable on the jet.
The two above might seem to be only loosely correlated, in that they involve exploding orifices and horrible, horrible errors in judgement. But if you're a flyer, you might have noticed a certain phenomenon when you're moving up and down in altitude- that annoying plugging feeling in your eardrums, followed by a need to flex your jaw/swallow/chew gum? That there is pressure, my friends, and if you think it does a number on your earballs, you should try repeated landings and take-offs (in military parliance, "touch and goes.") For a leviathan, peacefully slumbering in your intestines, stomach, and everything responsible for holding food for you like a man holds a purse while you try on shoes, well, he is not such a fan of someone playing with the pressure like a light switch strobe.
You should have paid more attention to fiber.
You fart. I was trying to be all forboding, but that's the moral of that tale. Pressurizing itself, on the way up, no big thing. It's the depressurization that bloats out your various food and poo sacs and when that critical PSI max is reached, it's pretty uncomfortable.
BUT. We aren't talking unmanageable spewage here, we're talking discomfort. Discomfort we all feel. If misery loves its company so much, then explain to me why there's always one rat-bastard who looks deeply into the grimacing, little-trooper faces of all his counterparts, frozen in mid-rectal-sneeze, and thinks to himself, "Self, my right to be comfy for the next three minutes until this builds again is surely greater than anyone else's need for breathing"?!
You also must note the type of people we're talking here. You've got the military aspect, so at any given point, there's three or four curlbros mainlining protein shakes, and one or two girls chowing down on sugar-free candy (you want to talk drawstring butthole, oh Lord, just go ahead and tempt fate with anything combining xylatol and gummy properties. I daresay if the Atkins diet had been bigger in WWII, we wouldn't have needed atoms to decimate cities.) On the other hand, you've got the enablers, who bake up scores of tarts and cookies and all sorts of dried-fruit-based 'energy bars' to share, and the professional eaters- they brought them a duffel bag of vindaloo chicken, and, damnit, if they don't lick the lining clean the terrorists win. Those energy bars will come in handy, still- as utensils. Ultimately, you're running pretty good odds that at least one on every flight is going to hit that winning combo of IBS self-inducer and sociopath.
Such odds were reached today. It was a smell so bad, I could visibly track the wave of malodorous poo-gas as it slapped the faces of the crew, traveling from the far-back end all the way to the front. And then, it was not only visual but textural as well, to the point I felt the need to floss for corn niblets. The supervisor actually started thumbing through his checklist for the smoke and fumes emergency procedures, it was so bad.
It was so bad... um. Penis-havers. You may want to leave; the true story part of this entry was not made for your delicate sensibilities. Go watch monster trucks or something.
Dudettes. (And dudes. You were warned.) It was so bad my monthly started spontaneously.
Only it wasn't just a drib-drab. It was every egg I ever grew simultaneously hitting that emergency exit and creating a red tide that Moses would have looked at and said, "Nope nope nope." I am fairly confident that I stand before you not just presently childless, but forever barren, as my ovaries just straight became an heroes rather than possibly allow new life into a world where smells like that exist.
So, I return to my first question- if a non-mommy blogs, does anyone read her?
But there is such a thing as too much closeness, and at flight level 35, it comes hard.
Come for the expository essays, stay for the "that's what she said!" jokes.
Aside from the random 'accidental' teabaggings, there are a few things that no one can help on the jet, and, hey man, that's acceptable. There's a toilet on board, and if you chose poorly at dinner last night and are encountering the dreaded drawstring butthole, well, just keep the little folding door closed and latched and spray a little courtesy Febreze around afterwards. Likewise for the other end- if you have to puke, well, that sucks, and here's hoping your brought a bag or aren't about to projectile vom all over an instructor or a maintenance dude. I once watched a dude hork down a pound bag of Skittles right before aerial refueling, and, lucky boy, also watched him taste that rainbow twice. Right into his own lap. We named him "Spackler" for the remainder of the TDY. But again, totally socially acceptable on the jet.
The two above might seem to be only loosely correlated, in that they involve exploding orifices and horrible, horrible errors in judgement. But if you're a flyer, you might have noticed a certain phenomenon when you're moving up and down in altitude- that annoying plugging feeling in your eardrums, followed by a need to flex your jaw/swallow/chew gum? That there is pressure, my friends, and if you think it does a number on your earballs, you should try repeated landings and take-offs (in military parliance, "touch and goes.") For a leviathan, peacefully slumbering in your intestines, stomach, and everything responsible for holding food for you like a man holds a purse while you try on shoes, well, he is not such a fan of someone playing with the pressure like a light switch strobe.
You should have paid more attention to fiber.
You fart. I was trying to be all forboding, but that's the moral of that tale. Pressurizing itself, on the way up, no big thing. It's the depressurization that bloats out your various food and poo sacs and when that critical PSI max is reached, it's pretty uncomfortable.
BUT. We aren't talking unmanageable spewage here, we're talking discomfort. Discomfort we all feel. If misery loves its company so much, then explain to me why there's always one rat-bastard who looks deeply into the grimacing, little-trooper faces of all his counterparts, frozen in mid-rectal-sneeze, and thinks to himself, "Self, my right to be comfy for the next three minutes until this builds again is surely greater than anyone else's need for breathing"?!
You also must note the type of people we're talking here. You've got the military aspect, so at any given point, there's three or four curlbros mainlining protein shakes, and one or two girls chowing down on sugar-free candy (you want to talk drawstring butthole, oh Lord, just go ahead and tempt fate with anything combining xylatol and gummy properties. I daresay if the Atkins diet had been bigger in WWII, we wouldn't have needed atoms to decimate cities.) On the other hand, you've got the enablers, who bake up scores of tarts and cookies and all sorts of dried-fruit-based 'energy bars' to share, and the professional eaters- they brought them a duffel bag of vindaloo chicken, and, damnit, if they don't lick the lining clean the terrorists win. Those energy bars will come in handy, still- as utensils. Ultimately, you're running pretty good odds that at least one on every flight is going to hit that winning combo of IBS self-inducer and sociopath.
Such odds were reached today. It was a smell so bad, I could visibly track the wave of malodorous poo-gas as it slapped the faces of the crew, traveling from the far-back end all the way to the front. And then, it was not only visual but textural as well, to the point I felt the need to floss for corn niblets. The supervisor actually started thumbing through his checklist for the smoke and fumes emergency procedures, it was so bad.
It was so bad... um. Penis-havers. You may want to leave; the true story part of this entry was not made for your delicate sensibilities. Go watch monster trucks or something.
Dudettes. (And dudes. You were warned.) It was so bad my monthly started spontaneously.
Only it wasn't just a drib-drab. It was every egg I ever grew simultaneously hitting that emergency exit and creating a red tide that Moses would have looked at and said, "Nope nope nope." I am fairly confident that I stand before you not just presently childless, but forever barren, as my ovaries just straight became an heroes rather than possibly allow new life into a world where smells like that exist.
So, I return to my first question- if a non-mommy blogs, does anyone read her?
If I remember correctly, Moses' specialty was the Red Sea, so... well, there really wasn't a point to that; I just wanted to prove I read the whole thing.
ReplyDeleteDude, this was crimson tide like you wouldn't believe. I think we lost the shortest ase in the torrential downpour. O_O
DeleteI'm a mommy with a non-mommy blog. Pretty sure nobody's reading that crap except people legally obligated to love me.
DeleteBut since you have kids, you have potentially lots of obligated peoples- I have my sister, who doesn't Internet good, and my parents, who don't like it when I use cusses, so...
DeleteBE MY FRIEND OH PLEASE OH PLEASE