Mistakes on a Plane | The Beachside Resident

By: Judy Forney

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I’m going to start this month’s column with a little personal but very public freak -out. I almost always begin monthly missives to you all with a bit of private fuss and fits. I never know what’s gonna pour out of my brain till the last minute. Most of the time, I’m sure that instead of finding words on the page, I’ll have… well… goo from exploding grey cells. Usually, behind the scenes, the conversation between my editor and I goes something like this:

“Judy! Where in heck is your (insert month) piece?”

“Geez, T. Stop your dang presses for a minute!”

“If you don’t make deadline girl, you’re soooo fired!”

Ha! Nope. Never happens that way. I’m not exactly Lois Lane reporting for duty on a Daily Planet assignment — which is good, ’cause I’d have blown Superman’s cover ages ago. “Hello, Mr. Kent?!? Glasses as a disguise?”

Anyway back to my public flip-out. This month marks my third November column for The Beachside Resident.

What the…? I’ve been writing this column for two solid years! How can that be? Where has the time gone? Of course the cash I’ve been able to sock away for my efforts has been phenomenal… Oh, did I say cash? I meant appreciation. Each month I’m richly rewarded with warm regards for my work.

O.K. So now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, back to the matter at hand. In honor of this month being an anniversary of sorts, I thought I’d look back through past pieces and… be lazy and repeat myself. Sort of. Last November, as I’m sure you all remember, (Oh, come on. Pretend!), I wrote about the perils of holiday travel. You know, having all that fun waking up at dawn and dozing down the Beachline Express, shuttling from a satellite lot at Orlando International, and then shuffling slowly and shoelessly through security. And then, once on the plane, who wouldn’t want to sit next to “Chatty Kathy” from Kissimmee?! Well, I’m here to tell you that having recently completed two flying trips the dangers of this happening have escalated. With the advent of checked bag charges, this year you’ll find yourselves traveling with a new breed of passenger: the crazy carryonners. Everything that won’t fit in the interior of their 22″ x 13″ x 8″ American Tourister they shove into outside pockets, which then won’t… quite… zip. If you like aisle seats like I do, (Yes, because we get our chardonnay first!), you can already picture it can’t ya? — overhead bins and bodily harm. My first encounter with the carrying kind was back in September.

I’d had a rough week away and was on an early morning flight home. I’d settled into my seat when — cue the evil music — another gal walked up the aisle awkwardly lugging her luggage. She stopped beside me and tried to lift it up and overhead to house, but the bag was too heavy. As she waved an attendant over to help, I noticed the unzipped pocket stuffed with files. The steward hefted the bag, the pouch contents shifted and heavy, paperboard folders wafted down on my head. As I said, I was coming off a couple of rotten days, and seeing the skin gouged from my arm, blood spurting from the cut, I was suddenly like the camel and her last straw. I burst into tears. When the entire flight crew sprang into action I was so appalled about sobbing that I just rambled on and on.

“Oh, man! That hurt!”

“You need a cold compress. A bandage… ”

“Yeah, bunch of blood, huh? Gosh, sorry about your upholstery!”

“A corner must have caught you. Looks deep… ”

“Really, it’s just a scrape… at least these first two inches or so. This part might scar, but oh well. Character and all that… ”

“Here’s some ointment… ”

“Thanks. That’ll help after it stops spouting red… ”

“Can we bring you a drink? On the house?”

It was only 8:09 a.m. and yes, I gave my usual answer in the affirmative.

My second run-in with a roller-bagger was during the middle of October. This time it was a guy who boarded pulling a beat-up leather suitcase that strained at the seams behind him. He lifted the bag up and tried to shove the thing into a bin. It wouldn’t go, so he pulled it out, turned it round and pushed it in again until it finally fit. That is, it did after a side compartment burst open and pencils, pens, and paper clips rained down on me. After the office supply shower stopped, there was a dropdrop of two quarters, and the plop of a pair of glasses into my lap. I was stunned for a second, but then I just started giggling. Seriously, who’d believe my luck? This time only one stewardess responded to the commotion. By the time she did, I was laughing and babbling about everyone being out to get me. A few minutes later while demonstrating the workings of an oxygen mask I could almost see the wheels turning in her brain. I knew she was also trying to figure how to fashion one of the things into a straight jacket for me, her kooky customer with the persecution complex.

So here we are in November. Later this month my husband and I are traveling to Nashville and I’m nervous. Really, what’s going to smack down on me next? Someone’s less-than-whitey tighties? The hubby said not to worry. Since he’s a super-duper-frequent-platinum-flyer, he’ll be cleared to board our flights first and grab the safest spot to…

Hey! Wait a second — spot, not spots — once he’s through the gate he’ll ditch me!

Oh well. Maybe avoiding mistakes on a plane this holiday season will be that easy. All of you just avoid sitting near me, too.

Happy trails!