I am sitting on the floor of O’Hare’s Concourse K, right outside the food court, which, from the smell of things, involves a Cinnabon. 90% of the allure of Cinnabon, for me, is the smell, since after the first bite, it just tastes like frostingy glue. Perhaps if they just poured the frosting right into a Starbucks (also in the food court, but apparently in the battle for supremacy, Cinnabon trumps Starbucks. At least in the olfactory arena) I would find it more appealing.
A loud Midwestern mom wearing a Chicago Bears sweatshirt has just called for her son Kyle fourteen times. Kyle. Kyle. Stand up, Kyle. Do you want milk, Kyle? Then stand up already. A loudspeaker announces that they are boarding first class passengers for London and Kyle asks if they are first class. No, Kyle’s mom explains, they are… and here she pauses’ regular class. Then she explains that it costs too much to fly first class, three times as much, something like the world of much in Kyle’s allowance regulated world. In a moment, Kyle’s mom is every mom in the entire Midwest. Kyle is beckoned down the concourse with a ‘Now come on, Kyle.’ He has a nameless brother who clings to her hand. Maybe his name is also Kyle.
I’m flying first today, although I can guarantee that I paid less for it than Kyle’s mom for her ‘regular class’, since I abuse my frequent flier miles to further my delusions of rock stardom.
We woke up this morning at 4:20 am and outside, I could clearly see the constellations in the clear pre-winter sky. Esteban tried reassuring me about the flight, but this time was particularly bad, because my normal planning time for packing was cut in half by finalizing costumes. I’ve spent the last three nights gluing sequins and Swarovski crystals to black velvet, and when you look at my costume, it looks like maybe I worked on it while watching The Office one night, because really, it does not look like so many sequins, but really? SO many sequins. So many. Also, through a splendid feat of stupidity, I almost started the house on fire. There was a clip-on work light, you see, which I clipped to my steamer so that I’d have more light in the kitchen, and then somehow bumped it so that it was resting against one of our framed Italian liquor ads and we then learned certain types of plastic smell like roasted marshmallows when it melts. Which has pretty much cured me of any roasted marshmallow cravings for the next several months.
Kyle’s mom has boarded her plane with both Kyles in tow. Although the Hill party of four is about to get their ass kicked by American Airlines if they don’t get on that plane right this minute.
Speaking of which, my TSA approved Ziploc baggie with my illicit liquids and gels came open or was never fully closed, and one tiny bottle of Aveda All-Sensitive Lotion fell out, unbeknownst to me but very beknownst to the TSA, which meant that my carryons were searched. The TSA agent applauded my Ziploc baggie and the fact that I had known exactly what needed to go into buckets (shoes, hoodie, laptop out of laptop bag, baggie out of carryon, keep the boarding pass and id in the hand when walking through the metal detectors). I think the vacation to veteran traveler ratio is pretty uneven out of GRB, as evidenced by the old couple who asked the TSA screener if the luggage he was checking was his or hers. ‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.’ He said, world-weary already at 5:00 am, and the old couple looked at each other as though this were yet another security measure. Can’t recognize your own bags? Then you just might be a terrorist.
Another mom just walked by and had this conversation with her son, who looked to be in the twelve- to fifteen-year-old range.
‘Do you need to use the restroom?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you need to urinate?’
‘No.’
‘Ok.’
As much as I hate tourists, I sort of love sitting in airports by myself, being quiet and watching other people. There are a lot of desert-camo wearing servicemen walking around this concourse, and in fact, one sat in front of me on my connection out of GRB. He has a one-month old daughter, he told the old couple who didn’t know whose bag was whose, and he’s going to be stationed somewhere classified for at least a year. It always shocks me, these timing estimates, the fact that we’ve been at war. It’s such a non-issue for most people who don’t have family members in service. It’s easy to forget that it’s happening. Really, my head is in the sand intentionally, because I get so angry and there’s just nothing that can be done about it, other than voting, other than doing what I’ve always done. Fewer than 800 days until we have a new president. Fingers crossed that this one’s not packing some grudges.
A few days ago, I was listening to NPR (why is late fall the time for NPR listening? I don’t know, but it seems to be the way of things) and they were interviewing a Republican strategist, who was, quite honestly, brilliant. I’ve always believed that the Republicans run their campaigns like a war, while the Democrats run their campaigns like a bake sale, sort of relying upon the fact that people will just ‘do the right thing’. Which I’m sure they would on equal playing fields, but the competitor is not following those rules, which means that you have to adjust your strategy. I admire the Republicans for some of their research and correlations. Psychological profiling seems to offend folks because we all want to believe that we’re all precious snowflakes, individual and unique, but in truth, we are creatures of habit, and our personalities have commonalities. For instance, the analyst talked about buying patterns between Republicans and Democrats. Democrats are more likely to drive Subarus and Volvos, while Republicans are more likely to drive Lincolns and (and this is where I clutched the steering wheel of my Chrysler with abject dread and got ready to swallow back a mouthful of vomit) trucks. Note that there are certainly truck-driving Democrat outliers (Esteban, for instance) but they are looking at trends. They don’t need to necessarily understand why the two are linked (that’s psychology, not statistics) but it does add something valuable to their arsenal. Meanwhile, the Democrats are studying the song list of their Fleetwood Mac Greatest Hits CDs, trying to pick their next theme song.
I’ve just been joined by a sweet lady who asked me where she can charge her phone. We’ve got a little encampment going here by the food court. I must have a trustworthy face, because she’s asked me to watch her charging phone while she goes to the restroom (I should have asked her ‘Do you have to urinate?’ ) Maybe she knows that she can outrun me.
Oh my god. Flava Flav just walked by with his entourage.
When I smiled at him, he said to me ‘Hey baby, how you doin?’
Yeah. I might not be a rock star, but at least I achieve the illusion, at least a few times a year.
Ok, that’s all I got. Bix out.
