The Exciting Flight Home

After a 10 day trip home for Thanksgiving Chris and I entered Detroit Metro Airport for the journey home.

It's amazing how it only takes four hours to travel across the country. It was a trip that used to take years, several horses and oxen and a case of scurvy. At least that's how it happened in the computer game, "Oregon Trail."

Now it takes four hours in a plane that smells like dirty feet, and stale burgers, while violating personal space. That's the best part of airline travel, because now TSA plays thirty questions.

"He'll circle, and I'll ask the questions," TSA man says handing my boarding pass to the man who has Chris's.

Fine, whatever. I'm tired and crabby. A horrible combination for making it through security without being arrested.

"Where are you going?" on of the two TSA agents asks looking at me. 
"Seattle."

"Are you traveling together?"
"Yes."

"How do you know each other?"
Seriously? You have our IDs. Look at the names and address. I'm pretty sure strangers do not have the same last name and address.
"We're married."

"Why were you here in Detroit?"
"Visiting family for the holidays."

"What do you do in Seattle?"
"I'm a writer and he works for Microsoft."

"Are you allowed to speak?" TSA man asks Chris.
Dude? For real? If you want him to answer, look at him. Following proper conversation/interrogation rules, if you're looking at me then I am the person you want to answer.

"What is your last name?" The second TSA man asks.
"Diehl."

TSA man 1 and 2 look at each other, using special secret TSA eyebrow movements.
"No more questions."

And through the radiation chamber we went. With all the crazy technology you would think my pony tail did not need to be patted down and stripped searched. Apparently, it does. For real? I've given up on people having common sense.

Michigan State was playing Florida State at 7:30 last night. All I wanted to do was get on the plane and hopefully watch the game on the amazing backseat TV screens.

We were late boarding, and people insisted in standing in front of me while I tried to watch basketball from 50 yards away. As we're walking down the gangway to the plane, our pilot says, "Grab my parachute, and call for help."

Things I do not want my pilot to say.

The pilot should not be needing a parachute, because that means I need a parachute, and as much as I want to go skydiving, I am not going to go skydiving with Delta. Call me crazy.

He insisted it was a Far Side Cartoon. I really hope he was.

We get on the plane, and no one can sit down in a quick manner. I think people are getting dumber.

Get on plane, sit in seat, chuck stuff under seat in front of you. And wait to take off.

Remember how I'm tired and crabby? I'm beyond tired, and am finding everyone's inability to sit down so we can take off so I can watch the Michigan State basketball game annoying.

I'm so tired I am actually able to doze on an airplane. Something that never happens. I would have slept better if the flight attendants and pilot did not think the PA was the coolest toy of the season.

Need to know every drink and every snack they have? They'll tell you.

Want to know why there's turbulence?
They'll tell you.

Want to know where the turbulence will be less?
They'll tell you.

The only thing they didn't tell us, is what lake in North Dakota we were flying over.

I finally was able to sleep, curled up in a tiny ball, my legs bent underneath me. Of course, in this position I could not have my seat belt on. Not a big deal. If the plane goes down, a seat belt is not going to help me.

Delta disagrees.

We hit a bit of turbulence and the next thing I know I am surrounded by flight attendants telling me to buckle my seat belt.

Buckled.

I should learn to fly my own plane, where I don't need a seat belt and TSA can't talk to me, or feel up my pony tail.