September 2015

I believe in something I call air travel amnesty. Let me ask you, if I gave you a cushioned, colored toilet seat to wear around your neck would you wear it? Would you happily put it around your neck and then walk onto a plane with it? Maybe walk through the entire plane, passed all 216 odd passengers as you go to the actual toilet seat? Stand outside the toilet, totally cool, greeting other passengers with a nod as if wearing cushioned toilet seats was as commonplace as a neck tie, or scarf, or a ruff collar in the mid-16^th century and you’re Shakespeare on plane and you need to pee. “No way!” I hear you exclaiming.

Then why is it, do you think, that people walk about airports and airplanes with that cushion for your neck – that is admittedly very useful and frequently neck-saving – but is undeniably shaped liked a toilet seat? I mean it’s easy enough to take off. It can be a pain to carry, but we do look crazy. Well, because of air travel amnesty of course.

It’s the amnesty that somehow says here we do things we would never normally do and we are magically absolved of them. Exonerated. It’s as miraculous as flight itself. This is not the only form it takes. We also slope around airport buildings in search of power outlets under the air travel amnesty rule. We sniff them out like hyenas after a kill. “Look there’s one!” and we snarl and growl at anyone who tries to get to it before us. And then we sit on a carpet and we take out our computers and we charge our stuff like the power might never come back again. Sucking every watt out until boarding time so our stuff is charged when they tell us we can’t use it. Tell me under which circumstances you would just sit on a dirty-carpeted floor gripped by some sort of post apocalyptic fear and use a power outlet, outside of an airport? Air travel amnesty, my friends.

Then there’s sleeping in airports. I’m not talking about the nodding off between layovers thing. No, I’m talking about the full up sleeping, making a bed like I’m on Venice beach with a spoon of meth, setting camp and sleeping thing. You’ve seen it. All that’s missing is the Ikea rug and the “Home Sweet Home” sign.

Is it because we are going somewhere we are not known that we allow ourselves to be shrugged of ourselves? Or is it because beyond customs, through the security tube thingy, at 50,000 feet, rules can’t possibly be the same? Or is it because at 50,000 feet, we all sleep with our mouths open next to a stranger and drool just a little so we might as well abandon all other decorum while we are at it? Maybe here in air travel world we are all truly equal, needy and strange. Hard to tell. Maybe I’ll sleep on it. On this plane. With my mouth open. Drooling on my toilet seat.

Is it just me or is everything that’s supposed to be good for your teeth impossible to open unless you use your teeth? And here begins my dentist conspiracy theory.

Take toothbrush packaging. You know, its in that hermetically sealed plastic so the hobos who live in your neighborhood can’t come into the toiletries aisle and brush their teeth and then sneak the brush back into the packaging and onto the shelf with their meth breathe stuck in the bristles. I get that. Meth breath is dangerous probably. I also get that there are things called scissors but I’ll be damned if I can EVER find them so every time I buy a new toothbrush the process goes something like this. I begin at the top thinking the plastic will peel away from the card backing. But there’s actually no obvious way “in”. They don’t mark it, thats how much they don’t care if you ever actually use this toothbrush even if you’re not a hobo. (Conspiracy theory is building…) That’s phase one.

Phase two is recognizing that the weak point is somewhere at the back in the cardboard area, but that too is triple layered and as impenetrable as Dwayne Johnson’s abs. It’s during this phase that I start ripping, and clawing with my short nails. My face also gets bunched up like I’m lifting one of Dwayne Johnson’s weights while scratching. I’m basically like a hobo trying to get into a hermetically sealed plastic package with meth in it.

Phase three is when I start using my old toothbrush like it miraculously has a sharp edge that never cut my hand off before this moment, and I bang around on the cardboard like a blind overweight mutt looking for its doggie door. I know this doesn’t work because every time I buy a new toothbrush I somehow I still do it. (Indisputable fact: toothbrushes will never open anything. Try it or take this advice for free, you’re welcome.)

Phase four is when I lean in and tear at the packaging with my teeth. And every time I do it, I confirm my own conspiracy theory – dentists are designing this packaging. Take toothpaste packaging, with the little foil seal. You can’t tear that off with your nails. It has to be with your teeth. And the package your dental floss comes in? Teeth. And the toothbrush they give you on overnight flights. It’s wrapped in plastic that can only be torn with teeth. And the little tube of toothpaste that’s attached to it with plastic. Teeth. My theory is strong. I recently had gum surgery and I left with a bottle of Vicodin in my purse, ready for all pain and a nice housewife high. When I opened the bottle of course it was sealed with the kind of seal I’d need my teeth for. Are the dentists out there hoping just to make more money as you put your enamels through the ringers, or do they just like that the little foil seal makes your teeth ache just enough to remind you they have the real power in the world? I decided to counter tat power and go and buy a pair of damn scissors. Guess what kind of packaging scissors come in? Teeth gritting sound goes here.

I don’t want Peter Dinklage to ever win an Emmy ever again. And I love Peter and his Tyrion Lannister in Games of Thrones, but it just can’t happen again.

My panic levels just ran too high when his name was announced as the winner. I panicked a deep-seated, heart-pounding eye widening panic. My hand went over my mouth as I silent screamed “Oh noooooo!” and then I looked at everyone I was watching with and they were all smiling and I panicked more because that meant I was the only who was thinking about this one critical thing: the height of Peter Dinklage’s microphone on stage.

My mind raced ahead to him standing there, and this long uncomfortable silence as it lowered down, down, down, down, down, then – oh no, too low – and it would have to shift up, up. And the cameras would have to cut to Nicole Kidman because she’d be the one who definitely wouldn’t show emotion – but I wasn’t sure she was there. And then Peter Dinklage would have to stand there and think of a joke that would be funny but not snarky but not let people off the hook either because this kind of thing is no laughing matter. And then behind the scenes the intern whose one job it was to make sure the microphone was the right height for Hollywood actors, Hollywood actresses and other stars with exceptional height differences would be fired, and he would have to go home and tell his mum why, and the producer would call to shout at him again because Dinklage’s agent had called him personally to say he would not work again in this town – because in this town apparently they always say that. And the kid would become maladjusted, which would be sadly ironic because that’s what the microphone for Peter Dinklage was.

Yes that was my thought process while one man walked to a stage. And when he got there the microphone was at the perfect height. Perfect. Then I started to think about how they got it so right. Of course they Googled it. (Google states 4’5” for the record.) But Google isn’t enough in these situations. A phone call must have happened. Someone had to call Peter’s agent asking for his exact height in case he won. And the poor bastard/bastardess who had to make that call? Well there were short straw jokes at the office for sure, but the call was made which is weird and amazing.

And at that moment I loved Hollywood for its precision. For its impeccable political correctness. For its ability to bring us not only the finest fabricated drama always at the highest level, but this moment of man giving a speech with his mic – and everyone else’s – at the right height. I applaud that kind of attention to detail. I really do. And when Peter left the stage and I began to panic all over again about who would raise the mic – not behind his back surely they would wait/cut/go to commercial break or Nicole Kidman  – I told myself “Hollywood’s got this, Sue.” And maybe, just maybe Peter Dinklage can win again. Maybe.