See you soon Nebraska.

I get a little teste on days I fly. I don't do well with lines, I don't enjoy people telling me what to do, and I certainly don't like taking my shoes off in a public place. Throw in the fact I haven't exactly slept in the past 48 hours and today could be a rough day. So this morning when a woman on the train Rosa Park'd me and wouldn't let me sit down, I had a somewhat difficult time of obeying my own life rule #17 Dont talk shit to a homeless person. But I'll get to this in a second. I'm not sure why I haven't been sleeping well, could be stress, or Harlow's snoring, or maybe it has something to do with the 37 ibuprofen I've been sniffing a day to deal with my teeth pain.  Last night as I was polishing the faucet in the kitchen for the third time I thought to myself, I wonder if this is what it feels like to be on crack. But that thought quickly diminished as I remembered I had to reorganize the pantry again. But that's neither here nor there. What's here is the fact I was just seconds away from getting into another fight with a disgruntled homeless woman on the train. All I did was politely ask her if I could sit where her bag of cigs were sitting. She didn't respond. So I ever so gently tapped her and said "ma'am, may I sit here?" She looked at me with her sharp black eyes lingering under her rastafari hat and grunted, "don't you touch me." I was appalled. How dare she wear the colors yellow, red and green and then present herself with such hostility. Why are homeless people so territorial? It's like they've got a little Doberman in them or something. Just because you've occupied a seat for the past 17 hours doesn't give you the right to call claimsies on the empty seat next to it. This isn't the Wild West. It's Chicago, and I'll cut a ho to sit down. Just last week I took a gun shot to the shoulder, do we not remember that? I threw up blood for 24 hours straight. The back of my mouth tastes like a rotting carcass. This is not the day, lady. You wanna dance? Well then let's go. I didn't train at Norfolk Paulyns Academy for 12 years for nothing- six of which were spent in the "company" where it's argued I might been the sole reason the Hammer Time number received numerous golds in 1996. Of course I'd never say that. Whatever. I decided to stand. I couldn't fight today, I curled my hair.  I curled my hair, shined my boots, I even put on blush because I'm off to Nebraska for the weekend to celebrate Knox's first birthday! We're going to rage all weekend. But before it's rage time, I had to fight my next battle of the morning: the TSA. Oh, TSA. It's always amusing to me how people who presumably never fly have the job of telling the rest of us how to do it. Are line directors at every turn and corner really necessary I wonder? Is there like a TSA director somewhere who has to report to someone up above who is always saying, "yeah things are running pretty smoothly, but we need to bring on more employees to direct people where to go in security lines. They're just not getting the hang of it yet." Really? Because I'm pretty sure lines are the only real thing travelers actually pay attention to at the airport. I always hear the woman behind me saying to her friend, "I always choose the wrong line. Always." Or the oriental business man who is debating which line to get in up until the very last second.  And then there's me who uses the Titanic method to choose a line. If at all possible,  I try to avoid getting behind a of group of women or children at all cost. Same with the elderly.  But I think I'm sometimes too hard on the TSA. Some of them are angels from God. Seriously. Just today I saw a miracle happen right before my eyes. I watched as woman in a wheelchair was wheeled to the front of the line and with just the simple touch of a TSA worker, rose to her feet and walked through the medical detector. On her own! It was amazing.  I can only assume she had never walked before because she wasn't old at all, she had all of her mental capacity because I had just watched her a mere two minutes prior debate between Cheetohs or Pork Loins (she got both) and O! magazine or Country Living (didn't get either and instead went for two packs of mini powdered donuts. What a good Friday for her. Well this has been a ramble.  I'm finally on the plane and ready to touch down in Nebraska in sixty minutes. Better turn off my phone before the comedic Southwest flight attendant makes me the butt of her instructional joke.  See you soon Nebraska.