I don't generally like traveling, mostly because I don't enjoy being out among the general population. I'm writing this on the train ride home from D.C., where I attended a conference with my boss. It was she who suggested the train, and it seemed awkward for me to suggest that she take the train, while I drive my own car and meet her there. Not that my boss is a problem—we’ve traveled together many times, and she's a fine companion. It's everyone else I can't stand.
The woman in front of us is painting her nails, the smell of which has given me an instant migraine. The conductor has asked her twice to stop, both times to which she smiled and said "of course," only to pull out the bottle again as soon as he left. How many coats of polish could she possibly need?
Fifteen and counting, so far.
There is a family of three two seats up, with a two-year old who was quite adorable at first. The cute tyke was listening to her mother read (as were we all) until the little girl started fussing. Then her father got the bright idea to tickle her, making her giggle wildly until she threw up in the aisle. The sour vomit smell, sadly, still doesn't mask the reek of nail polish.
Nail Polish Lady has put away the bottle of Aphrodite's Pink Nightie (available from OPI, she tells the nun sitting next to her) and is now listening to what sounds like hip-hop on her iPod. I know this because she is apparently hard of hearing, and has the volume cranked in her headphones for all of us to enjoy. Hip-hop, you realize, makes my fillings ache.
I will admit to making some poor decisions leading up to this trip. Tuesday, for instance, I was griping to Jason that there were no cheesy snack products in the house. Then Wednesday, I asked him to pick up something for me to nibble on during the trip. Today, I had Cheetos™ for breakfast and am now debating eating an entire family-size bag of Doritos™ for lunch, even though what I'm really craving is a nice apple. There's a little café on the train three cars up, but I would have to step over the vomit to get there, which would kill my appetite. Then I'd have to step over the barf puddle to return to my seat, which doesn't seem worth the effort.
I can't stand it any more - I'm starving. I crack open the Doritos and start shoveling. My fingers quickly turn orange with cheese dust.
"Oh, gross," Nail Polish Lady complains loudly. "The smell of Doritos makes me positively sick."
Dorothy was right. There's no place like home, and I never want to leave it again.
The woman in front of us is painting her nails, the smell of which has given me an instant migraine. The conductor has asked her twice to stop, both times to which she smiled and said "of course," only to pull out the bottle again as soon as he left. How many coats of polish could she possibly need?
Fifteen and counting, so far.
There is a family of three two seats up, with a two-year old who was quite adorable at first. The cute tyke was listening to her mother read (as were we all) until the little girl started fussing. Then her father got the bright idea to tickle her, making her giggle wildly until she threw up in the aisle. The sour vomit smell, sadly, still doesn't mask the reek of nail polish.
Nail Polish Lady has put away the bottle of Aphrodite's Pink Nightie (available from OPI, she tells the nun sitting next to her) and is now listening to what sounds like hip-hop on her iPod. I know this because she is apparently hard of hearing, and has the volume cranked in her headphones for all of us to enjoy. Hip-hop, you realize, makes my fillings ache.
I will admit to making some poor decisions leading up to this trip. Tuesday, for instance, I was griping to Jason that there were no cheesy snack products in the house. Then Wednesday, I asked him to pick up something for me to nibble on during the trip. Today, I had Cheetos™ for breakfast and am now debating eating an entire family-size bag of Doritos™ for lunch, even though what I'm really craving is a nice apple. There's a little café on the train three cars up, but I would have to step over the vomit to get there, which would kill my appetite. Then I'd have to step over the barf puddle to return to my seat, which doesn't seem worth the effort.
I can't stand it any more - I'm starving. I crack open the Doritos and start shoveling. My fingers quickly turn orange with cheese dust.
"Oh, gross," Nail Polish Lady complains loudly. "The smell of Doritos makes me positively sick."
Dorothy was right. There's no place like home, and I never want to leave it again.
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