The Middle Seat Traveler - 21B

Traveling for the holidays is like a circus. It's when the rookie travelers (weird and creepy, geriatrics, foreign, for example) come out in droves and often times, are seated right next to you on your flight.

For some karmic reason, I was the lucky recipient of the middle seat on a flight from Phoenix to Minneapolis yesterday. When I approached the said seat, which from here on out will be known as Old Sparky, an odd looking man with a bowl cut was seated next to it already. Vibrant redt hair, middle aged, thin and with impeccable posture, I thought I had struck gold as he rose politely to let me in. He was very well manicured, with a spotless Eddie Bauer-esque jacket zipped all the way to his chin. And his pale chin was very pronounced. I labeled him either a male ballerina or some sort of equestrian, both of which I felt honored to be seated next to on this particular day.

Without saying anything to one another, Mr. Ballerina and I awaited the last piece to our Row 21 puzzle; the window seat was still open, and the plane doors were about to close. Inevitably, you're always hopeful that you'll end up without a full row, however unlikely the odds may be. And then just like that  - in walked our final puzzle piece - Missy Trailer Trash. Instead of the common "excuse me, that's my seat," without skipping a beat, ole girl climbed directly over Mr. Ballerina and then myself, and settled into her spot. Within seconds, milliseconds even, the stench drifted into my bubble. It was rancid. Part stale smoke (picture Virginia Slims and Jack Daniels in a house with no doors or windows...for a decade), part cheap perfume and part moth balls. I sat there, half panicked and half focused on my next move to escape the smell. And she couldn't sit still, pulling things out of her purse, applying makeup, taking pictures of the air (the AIR), each time wafting the smell back and forth into my bubble like a wave of death. I started breathing through my mouth, but it wasn't enough. It was time for the scarf barrier.  No shame, the smell was starting to take over.

The beverage cart started its way down the aisle and I focused my efforts away from Missy Trailer Trash and towards one of my favorite airplane games: predict the beverage order. I already had my two Row 21 fellows pegged. Mr. Ballerina would order a juice of some sort, maybe apple. Trashy Smokey Face would order a black coffee. Or perhaps even a Pepsi, only to realize the sodas are coke products, which she'd then refuse. The loud Minnesota man might order a sprite. The businessman who resembled Sean Connery across the way - a beer. And the Businesswoman two rows up will brave a Bloody Mary.

I hate to brag when I'm right, but let it be known I was 4 for 5 this time. Mr. Ballerina split an apple juice. The odor that had me discombobulated.

I actually managed to survive the two hour flight. As we touched down in Minneapolis, the woman exited the same way she entered, and even more, proceeded to climb back against the crowds seven rows to get her bag. I was never more relieved to see anybody go. A few beers, and a few hours later, I found myself in Columbus, Ohio. Land of the North Pole, SNOW and most importantly, the redheaded nephew who we call Marcus Deacon.  

Finally, let the holidays begin. Something tells me Marcus will be worth the trip.

Being "Ratted" Out

In the mere month that I've resided in The Estate At 822, the few cons of living in a 1914 home have reared their ugly heads - figuratively and unfortunately for my sanity -  literally.

Allow me to explain. About three weeks ago - just before my parents came to visit - I woke up to a Tuesday morning no different than any other day. And after hopping out of my clawed-shower, I made my way to the kitchen to get the coffee started. My gaze quickly shifted from the coffee I was spooning into the filter, to the small brown dropping that glimmered atop our white sink. "That's odd," I thought to myself. "I cleaned that sink before I went to sleep last night." I pulled the coffee maker back from the wall to fill the lid with chilled water, and to my horror, there lied a healthy pile of additional droppings. "Shit."

After the confirmation from my roommate that we did, in fact, appear to have a mouse "friend" in our house, I started to panic. The counters, cabinets and all flooring had to be sanitized, but more importantly, traps had to be set. And not just traps, but rat traps. I needed to get aggressive.

Two days passed, and one Friday morning I awoke to an upside down trap, and a thin, hostile tail waving in the breeze from underneath.Our first captor. Having seen it firsthand, it wasn't fulfilling, or even sad. It was horrific. This substantiated my suspicion about the droppings that I argued against my better judgement could have been large coffee grounds. And it also brought in the voices. Where there's one... there's a dozen behind them. Larger, and unequivocally more fierce and prone to come into my room and gouge my eyes out.

Two weeks passed, and no more captives were taken. I was moving freely between kitchen cabinets, and even boasting the tale of the only lone ranger in Arizona that I happened to be lucky enough to have had grace my presence.

That was until this week... when everything changed.

As I approached the front door, I saw a small something in the distance in the dead center of the kitchen floor. As I neared, it became clearer what I was looking at. A figure with its back to me, larger and dare I say darker, seated on its hind legs in the middle of our kitchen. The third step I took ignited fear in the bastard, and down it landed on all fours. As quick as you could yell "BOB SAGET," off the morsel darted under our stove. Naturally, off I darted back out the front door.

It took Itule about 30 minutes to give up the search, even after fully pulling the stove out of place, coming face to face with the guy and subsequently screaming for his life. We followed protocol, and dutifully placed a warzone of traps (including the sticky ones) throughout the kitchen. According to the rat exterminator, "The best thing to catch the vermon, is to stop them in their tracks... even if you have to hear them scream."

I didn't care. Whatever it takes to catch them - I'm willing to try.

Let the bloodbath begin.