Babies and Bitches

Babies. That’s right. Babies. No “that’s what she said,” no dirty joke (maybe a dirty diaper) no sexual innuendo…just a baby. Totally innocent, totally pure. It’s kind of amazing. I mean, we don’t think about this often, but at one point we were all there—totally at the whim of those around us…totally dependent on our parents without whom we would assuredly die.

As I sit here on an airplane approaching my ninth continuous hour of boredom I begin to contemplate babies…and here’s why.

Inevitably on every flight since the Wright Brothers there has been a crying/stinky/restless baby on the plane for the…enjoyment of all the other passengers. I had managed to avoid this to any extreme until now…I find myself sitting right next to what looks to be a one-year-old baby girl. As she sits there in her pink one-piece with a giant strawberry on it in her father’s lap she attempts a jerky, out-of-control wave at me as she had clearly been taught by her parents. I wave back, smile as any normal person would, and go back to listening to my music.
About three-fourths of the way through my flight a flight-attendant comes around to pass out those pesky immigration forms and the girl sitting in the seat in front of me asks the flight attended with an air of deserving, spoiled, annoyance if the flight attended could send someone over to fill out her form for her. Just to give a brief description to…paint a better picture…this girl is wearing tight grey Juicy sweatpants and a white wife-beater with a black lacy bra clearly showing through. She is wearing a decent amount of make-up (more than this average guy would assume necessary for an airplane ride) Channel sunglasses (and has been since take-off) and her clearly-bleached hair has been purposely made to look like it hasn’t been washed in a few days…We’ll call her Allota B. Otch.
Anyway, Ms. B. Otch asks this poor flight attendant, who has been working for the past 10ish hours now, to find someone to fill out her form for her (you know the form, the ¼ sheet of paper with about 10 yes/no questions on it plus a place for your name). The clearly exhausted attendant agrees and sends someone over to “help” Allota fill out her form. It was at this point that the baby let out an involuntary squeal of joy as her father tickled her so as to get the useless airplane telephone away from her before she dialed China. I look at the baby, then at the lovely piece of humanity sitting in front of me, then back to the baby and the only thought I have is…What went wrong?!
Allota wasn’t born a bitch. She was born a baby, helpless and innocent and all those other baby epithets, and now, approximately 17 years later she cant help but radiate classlessness (though still apparently helpless).
Why people?! Why are some of us like that? Ya know, I drive down the street and see an ambulance in my rear view mirror and watch all the cars pull over to let it by (despite the willingness many of them had to cut off/break check the Pontiac GTO in front of them only moments before) and get a warm sense of faith in my fellow humans. And then I see Ms. Allota B. Otch and it really puts a baseball-sized dent in my confidence in the human race.
Being a good person or a nice person or an understanding person or simply pretending to be just isn't that hard. Now that’s not to say that I am the beacon of purity when it comes to those things because I most certainly am not, but I make an effort, something that the baby is incapable of and the girl in front of me is seemingly incapable of. And again I have to ask…why? Just think of what it could do for our county or state or country or world if people exercised just a little bit more compassion and empathy toward our fellow humans. I mean, clearly the overwhelmed waitress didn’t mean to put mustard on your burger. The JambaJuice employee didn’t mean to put peanut butter in your all-fruit smoothie. The guy behind the counter at The Sharper Image didn’t mean to sell you an air-purifier (with a compass in it of course) that simply blows dirt around your house. It’s not the academic advisor’s fault that you didn’t sign up for an astronomy lab next semester and have to take the class over the summer. And, on a similar tract, it most certainly not the flight attendant’s fault that you have to fill out a customs form before you get to your final destination.
So Orange County, California, United States, World in/on which I live and breath and hopefully prosper with the rest of you…calm down, take a deep breath, and restore someone’s lost faith in humanity today.

Oh…and as for Ms. B. Otch, well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but I swear I speak the truth. About a minute later an elderly gentleman walking down the isle stumbled a little bit next to seat 64C and spilled a glass of orange juice all over her. Needless to say she spent the remainder of the flight in the lavatory emerging only at the flight attendant’s insistence with a very large, very noticeable orange stain on her white shirt.

Karma’s a bitch…don’t piss it off.