Flying with babies

My friend is flying with her baby this weekend and she worries for her fellow passengers.

I HATE people that give people with babies a hard time on an airplane.

What the hell do you want them to do? It is not like you can take a step outside.

Get over it. A crying baby? There are worse things in the world.

Perhaps if you feel you are above the normal population - which does include babies - you should be seated in first class.

If you can't afford to be seated in first class...then you should stop complaining because much to your dismay - you are common, like the rest of us.

Unless of course you have a sweet ass deal with airlines because of your father - then you do deserve to sit in first class. And let me tell you - if you have never been first on international - you are MISSING OUT. It is one sweet ass deal up there. I love it and I can not look back.

Please, God - don't ever let me sit among the commoners when I travel over oceans...please. I can't ever do it. Quite frankly, I find it inhumane.


More on Bus Girl

Apparently that girl who fascinates me with her style of dress lives in my hood.

I saw her out for a run one day. As I saw her approaching I decided that I am an evil person and should consider being nice. I am jerk who is judging her.

I smile.

I get nothing in response.

OK - fine. She is out for a run and can't be bothered.

Perhaps if I was out running she would reciprocate my smile or friendly nod.

This is, after all, the code of the friendly runner. One always smiles or gives a friendly nod to fellow fitness enthusiasts. (I am not a fitness enthusiast - but I pretend to be). I actually HATE people that do not smile or say hello in response to my friendliness when I am running. I would say that only 5% of fellow runners do not return my greeting. I assume these people are fitness snobs and think that I am too fat to be running. They think: Keep running piggy, keep running.

Well - later that week, I saw her at my actual bus stop. Again - I gave her another chance and smiled. This is what I do. I make the world a friendlier place. Normally - people smile in return. Chicago is a surprisingly friendly town. I GET NOTHING. I get a stare accompanied by long blinks, like I opened my mouth and said some kind of nonsense like "I like to eat strawberries in my underwear" to her.

That is it. I hate her. No more chances.

I saw her a few days later on the bus. I was surprised because she looked respectable in a colored shirt and sweater.....until she got up and I noted she was wearing the mullet of attire. She again had her fucking leggins on. Much like the mullet is business in the front, party in the back....this girl is business on the top and clubbin' on the bottom.

Stop dressing like a fool. Stop giving me material you little doe eyed blonde freak.

Reference to the face issue...addressed now

Lindsey referenced a story from my past that I will tell.

This is not the high point in my life and it is not a time I am proud of - but legendary and humorous - must be told.

This is the great f-ed up face story.

For about 3 months I was running around the greater Phoenix area with a dried up bloody scrape above my right eyebrow.
I theorized that there was some kind of gravitational pull between my that part of my head and the earth. But it is possible that was not true.

Each time the injury healed, it would come back due to another tragic accident.

I referred to my constant injury as "my pretty".

These were all the injuries, not necessarily in this order:

#1. A LEGITIMATE rugby injury. Something involving a tackle gone wrong and the hard as concrete Arizona dirt field.

#2. The Great Cabin Injury:
As all great stories from my past start: I had been drinking. I was on a retreat of sorts with some friends at a friend's cabin up in the elk country of Arizona. I did not see a cooler that was on the ground right in front of me and I proceeded to trip over it. A normal person catches themselves or at least breaks their fall with their hands. Not I. I broke my fall with my face. I sent my bottom teeth through my inside lip and scraped the side of my head bloody.

The next morning I woke up to Aime yelling "Who let Mardy fall asleep with chocolate in her mouth?!?!?!?"

Although that would not be odd for me to fall off to slumber land with chocolate in my mouth, it was not the case. That ain't chocolate. That is dried up blood from my serious lip injury.

I believe this is the trip where I composed the great piano sing along tune "Good lookin' I'm so god damn goooooooood lookin'"

#3. Trapped in a Car:
oh dear, oh dear. How can this even be explained?

It was my birthday. I was in going to school at night at the time and I had no plans for my birthday. I simply planned to meet my roommate, Aime, at the Thirsty Beaver for a few drinks after I got out of class.

When I left class that evening: Mary, Corrina, and Aime were there. Singing Happy Birthday. I was mortified because Mary had on some chaps and was strumming a ukulele. I pretended that I was not this alleged Mardy who was having a birthday.

Onward to The Thirsty Beaver.

I arrived to find all my friends at the Thirsty Beaver. A fine and fantastic birthday. One of the best ever - Thanks Aime!!!

Well...I had been drinking. Too much. Peter, my bartender and good friend kicked me out of the bar - on my own birthday. Jerk.

My friends were certainly not going to stop having a good time so they simply seat belted me into the passenger side of my car. Aime instructed me that I was not in any circumstance allowed to leave the car. Yes, Captain...I will under no circumstance leave the car.


I needed to leave the car, I don't know why. I tried to get out and found that something was holding me back. What was it? I tried and tried. OH! It is this pesky strap this is holding me in. I pull the shoulder strap away to free myself. NO...I do not release the seat belt like a normal person. I just remove the shoulder strap. I go to get out again. I try and try. Nope. Can't get out. I finally figure out that I was being held in by some kind of restrictive lap belt

Again, a normal person releases the seat belt. Not me. I pull out the lap belt and attempt to slither out of it. Slither slither and that was the end of it. My legs got stuck and I slammed my face into the asphalt of the paring lot.

Sweet. I am classy. Another "pretty" is born.

I was wild and out of I wear pearls.

It is good to have a past.

You've missed me...admit it

You’ve been wondering where I have been. Haven’t you?

Well – I’ll tell you.

I was robbed. Yes…robbed.

Someone welcomed himself into my apartment and helped themselves to such things as my computer, my camera and all my finest jewels.

A tragedy? Yes.

Am I over it? Yes.

Better than having a leg chopped off. That is what I always say.

Well – actually, I always say “Better than having one really short leg”

This is my philosophy in life.

It is “Mere’s One Really Short Leg Outlook on Life”.

Feel free to incorporate this into your own life.

When things seem shitty – I say to myself:

Well, this would be a lot worse if I had one really short leg.

Just one. One regular leg and then perhaps my other leg was so short it ended at my knee. A sort of flipper leg – but a bit longer.

This is how I don’t get trapped in a cycle of self-pity and depression. Everything is worse with one really short leg.

Wa wa wa…I was robbed. Lot worse to be robbed and have one really short leg. Wa wa wa wa, I have nothing to wear today. Well – whole lot worse to have nothing to wear and one really short leg. Wa wa wa…I am fat. Worse to be fat with one really short leg. Wa wa wa…I didn’t win the lottery. Would suck to not win the lottery and have a really short leg.

Wa wa wa….I am single and thirty. No one wants to marry me. Then I say – well, this would be a lot worse if I were single, thirty AND had one really short leg.

But then I think. NO. NO, to this one. I would probably be involved in some kind of one really short leg subculture and go to Really Short Leg Conventions and meet a fine young man there that also has one really short leg. The pool is smaller so it would be easier to find a mate. This is where midgets have it made. They just go to midget meetings and find a fellow midget. You look around; you see what is out there. These are your choices and that is that.

Full sized and full-legged people have the whole world to search through. An entire ocean of freaks to sift through. Midgets have a small pond. Seems easier to me.

Don’t worry – I am still happy I don’t have one really short leg.

For Kelly

This is my friend's boyfriend. Not really. But whatever. He is the great Jonny Wilkinson, he is good looking, English and plays rugby. What more could a girl want? Maybe a few inches on his height. More on the Rugby World Cup later..I've got a two year old's birthday party to get to. But do watch the England - Australia game. It was a good one.