So, before I turbo-boosted us past Air Force One and landed us safely in Long Beach, I endured what will go down in history as one of the longest flights in the history of the world. It falls just short of my first overseas flight from Los Angeles to London, which clocked in at eleven hours, a flight on which I stupidly believed I was going to sleep while the people behind me knew they were going to drink wine and engage in “Oh my, how hip I am” conversation, consequently resulting in the most mind-blowing jet lag I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing (it was kind of like what I think tripping on cat urine might feel like), and another flight from New York to London where we were lucky enough to be sat directly beside the guy who chose not to bathe for three days prior to getting on an airplane. Oh yeah, he was stinky. For seven hours.

But the last leg of this trip, the flight from New York to Long Beach, was the definition of “anti-fun”. You know that group of people, the group who is on every flight who is absolutely convinced that they are the only people, or at least the most important people, on the plane? They were right behind us. Their children were crazy. The grandmother read books aloud to them and felt the need to emphasize the story by pounding on the book, which was sitting on the tray table attached to my seat. They kicked the seat, they almost tripped two of the flight attendants, and then they actually mouthed off when one of the flight attendants had the nerve to ask them to keep their kids in the seats while they were trying to serve drinks. Because how dare she ask not to be tripped with hot coffee!

But then came the best part. About an hour before landing, I faced that dreaded monster known as the airplane restroom, because I had to pee and I just couldn’t hold it. I tried, I really did. So I’m in there, and I have just barely had time to dislocate my arms, which is of course required to maneuver about the airplane restroom, and drop trou when… SUDDENLY someone tries to force their way in and there is a crazed pounding against the flimsy plastic door. So I, uh, finish up and wash my hands as a good girl should, and I open the door and glare at the first person I see. Then, I start to walk away, and the flight attendant yells at me, “Hey, were you opening up nail polish in there?” And I’m like, “No,” with a totally scoffing look of disbelief, and she’s like, “Okay.”

Okay?

Okay?!?

First of all, if it was something so unimportant that you could just take my word for it and say “okay” then WHY THE FUCK WERE YOU POUNDING ON THE DOOR?!? Not that I really wanted to be frisked. I experienced that two times too many on the return trip. But that’s a story for another day.

Second, is nail polish not permitted on aircraft now? Did I miss this memo? I thought if I could fit it into my little quart plastic baggie and it was less than three ounces, it was totally kosher. I didn’t have any nail polish, and if I did I certainly wouldn’t have been trying to apply it in the one-by-one torture pee chamber available on airplanes, but now I’m curious. And, if nail polish is still allowed, why did this woman go all crazy gorilla on the door while I was trying to having a calm, contemplative moment of urination?

In other news, the sound on my free in-flight entertainment system didn’t work and the picture on Shawna’s screen went out, which, I’m not going to lie, wasn’t very entertaining.

So, what have we learned from this?

I’m thinkin’ perhaps we shouldn’t rely on the flight attendants’ olfactory senses for our safety and security and JetBlue needs to make sure all of their equipment is in proper working order before charging me astronomical fees for an airline ticket.