Eating At Airports

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After a wonderful visit with my family, I'm back home in NC.  I'll post pictures of my visit just as soon as my brother-in-law (AHEM!) e-mails them to me.  I know you're all dying to see Aunt Di-Di in action. 

Thought of a blog entry on the plane ride home.  I was on an itty-bitty United charter flight which was a problem for anyone over 5'7" as that's about what the ceiling topped out at.  The flight attendant came back with the drink cart.  "May I get you anything?" she asked.

"Coffee, black, please," I answered.

She gave me my coffee and a bag of spicy mixed nuts and pretzels. I tore open the bag and started chomping.  And it was then that the topic for today's blog entry occurred to me.  I had the frightening realization that I will eat anything a flight attendant hands to me.  No questions asked.

Let's think about this.  If I were at the store, I would never buy this spicy nuts and pretzel mix.  Too many calories, I'm not overly fond of salty foods, etc.  Even at a party, I would pass it by for the same reasons.  But hand it to me in a semi-claustrophobic encased metal environment and I'm all about the spicy nuts and pretzels.

Odd eating habits don't just extend to on-the-airplane eating, either.  I consider eating in an airport terminal a caloric free-for-all.  I stopped at a Starbucks this morning inside the airport before my flight and along with my decaf, skim-milk latte,  ordered up a king-size apple fritter.  Now, I would never  order the fritter in my day-to-day life.  But I didn't even blink an eye at the airport.  I needed breakfast, the fritter was there, end of story. 

For some reason, I seem to think foods eaten in an airport don't count.  Like I think the Universe should see that I'm stuck in a huge, gritty, dirty, loud place with crying babies and way too many people trying not to look smug and self-important as they talk into headset phones and therefore the Universe should balance the equation by not having any food I eat in this yucky place "count."

At least, I'm hoping that's how it works.  'Cause that was a really good fritter.

I Am Aunt Di-Di

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I'm in Chicago, visiting my mom, sister, brother-in-law, and my too-adorable for words 2 1/2 year-old nephew, Jake.  I haven't seen Jake in over a year and he was hesitant when I came in the door, clinging a bit to my sister's shoulder.  That quickly went away as we went into the living room and he pulled out every one of his toys to show me.  After deciding I was worthy, I quickly became the "go to" person for Jake.  Dinner need putting on the table? Aunt Di-Di had to do it.  A toy to be played with? Aunt Di-Di must play.  Book to be read?  Only if it's read by Aunt Di-Di.  I admit, I totally loved the attention.  It makes you feel special to be wanted by a two year old.

Special that is, until it came time to check the diaper.  "Jake, did you go potty?" asked my sister.  "C'mere and let me see."

"No!  Aunt Di-Di," came the reply.

All my relatives--who have a mean streak to them--burst out laughing.  My gag instinct where poop is involved is well known among family.  But Jake stood in front of me and turned around and was patiently waiting (amid snickers from everyone) so I pulled his pants out, took a quick peek, tried not to faint, and said, "Yup, you're dirty."

"Aunt Di-Di do it," said Jake, meaning he wanted me to change his diaper.  (More laughter from the mean relatives).

But that's where Aunt Di-Di had to draw the line.  I managed to stay in the room, but couldn't really go near the bed where my sister, rolling her eyes at me, changed him.

I'm staying at my mom's, and the next morning my sister called me and said, "We made pancakes and Jake saved one for Aunt Di-Di."  I reported this to my mom who said, "What about a pancake for Ba?" (He insists on calling my mom "Ba."  We have no idea why.  But when he calls for her he yells, "Ba!  Ba!") "You've been replaced," I smugly informed her.

Last night I read him a story in bed as he cuddled next to me, then he sang "You are my sunshine" which is the song he sings before bed, then he said his prayers and went to sleep.  He is just too precious for words.

I still don't want one of my own, but I love being "Aunt Di-Di."

The Luggage Has Been Found

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Thanks for everyone's prayers to the God of Lost Luggage.  It showed up at my door 40 minutes ago, no worse for the wear.  Also no tags to tell me where it had been.  When I lose luggage I at least hold out hope that it's been sent somewhere interesting.  No clues here.  But I am now happily unpacked with laundry churning, so all is right with the world.