The question isn’t what I learned at BlogHer ’14, but what was going through my mind on the flight home.
The little girl next to me is trying to sleep, so I turn off my overhead light. Too dark to read. My screen replays the same programming in a loop: a woman making Steamed Clams with Spring Herbs, inexplicable 1963 World’s Fair footage, some advertisement with hundreds of multicolored lowercase is that bounce around and disappear into holes in the ground. I watch South Park on someone else’s screen, without sound, and try to figure out what’s going on. Kenny is riding a giant bird. I absently reach for a granola bar, and while I am eating it, a peanut falls off and lands somewhere in the vicinity of the sleeping girl. I worry that she’s allergic and that I’ve unwittingly killed her with my irresponsible handling of peanuts.
Cartman is outside in his pj’s talking to a gang of cats.
I switch my screen to Map View. The plane icon is over Salt Lake City. I remember the white expanse of the Bonneville Salt Flats and my hipsterdouche ex-boyfriend posing on them like a model. The little girl next to me puts her brown feet up on the armrest, and I immediately remember that people used to call Brazil nuts “n*gger toes.” I’m not allowed to think “n*gger toes,” which means I think it, but only about five times, which means the medication is working. I berate myself for not being as successful as other women, for not having created a web site to help three million women survive postpartum mental illness. I need to be an innovator, and there are no good illnesses left. I decide to create a web site to rescue people caught in the throes of restless leg syndrome. No, it has to be women. Restless vagina syndrome? I need to help those who are oppressed. Women of color with restless vaginas dot org? Probably not.
I forgive myself for not being an innovator. Also for my irresponsible peanut handling.
The plane icon is inching across Nebraska. I can’t stop thinking “n*gger toes,” so I start compulsively eating chocolate cherries out of my bag to cope with the stress. The first one tastes like cough syrup, but I know I will end up eating all of them. I lower my tray table to rest my head. I can’t figure out why they call it “tray table.” It is a tray, or a table? It seems to be one or the other, but not both. Someone has farted. I try not to think about the enormous pressure I feel to write something brilliant, to be successful and distinguished. Unfortunately, I have now farted. Taking notes on my phone, I type “Fart [comma] others” and “Fart [comma] self.” The Autocorrect will not let me type “fart.” It insists on changing it to “Farr”, like Jamie Farr, the actor who played Klinger on MASH, then to “Foxx.” I spend a long time trying to figure out if Jamie Fox has two x’s. I decide that “Foxx” will be my name when I become an exotic dancer.
I will have a tail.
I have showed great restraint in leaving a lone chocolate cherry in the bottom of the bag. Meanwhile, I’ve become embroiled in the great mental clusterfuck of trying to figure out what time it is in three different time zones. We appear to have been hovering over Detroit for the last 45 minutes. I drift off sitting up. When I awake, the screen is showing that Boston serves the airline Aer Lingus, which I think might be a portmanteau of “air” and “cunnilingus,” as in
Person A: “Did you have a sexy flight?”
Person B: “We attempted aerlingus, but the bathroom was too small.”
I type this observation into my phone, which recognizes both “portmanteau” and “cunnilingus.”
I wonder what kinds of texts my husband was sending before he gave me his old phone.