This is the last thing I'll say about my Asian trip, which must be getting tiresome to hear about by now.
I flew Dragon Air from Hong Kong to Shanghai. Before we even left the runway, it was obvious we were headed to a place where things were just done differently. As my grandpa used to say, "oh, those darn communists."
First off, let's talk about commie babies. They are more evil than your capitalist tot. There was one sitting in front of me, with parents that must have been deaf mutes, as they were silent as the child squirmed, screamed and babbled. This wouldn't have been so bad if it were not for the fact that we were stuck on the runway. The pilot had come on the PA, said something to the effect of "The delay is from the Shanghai airport, not us, not Hong Kong, and we don't have any information other than we are going to sit here for an hour." Then, amazingly, he told us to relax and enjoy the wait.
Maybe I would have had it not been for Commie Baby in front of me. He kept sticking his head between the seats to stare at me. It was like he was a moth and I was a flame. It babbled at me in Mandarin. Or Cantonese, I wouldn't know. I said to Hubby, "Make it go away, make it go away, make it go away."
I began squirming in my seat, I tried to reach for the call button to call the flight attendent, but my seat belt was on; I couldn't get it undone. The baby, or as I called it, It, began to squeeze through the crack as if it were trying to crawl in my lap. Of course, the space between the seats was too small and Commie Baby, too fat. But still. It was like being attacked by a snake.
I made enough of a fuss that a sympathetic Asian woman across from us leaned over to the Deaf Mute Parents and told them, as I imagine, "That neurotic American woman who needs to lose 5-10 pounds doesn't want to be bothered by your baby." The parents kind of shrugged, said something to the kid, who shot me a wounded look. I thought of sticking out my tongue, but I figured I had disgraced America enough for one day, or in this case, for five minutes.
Then the evil child did something truly mean. I had turned my attention to the small tv screen in front of me, on the back of his father's seat. The kid stuck his hand over the screen so I couldn't watch TV. I started squirming again and muttering, Make it Stop, Make it Stop. The Asian woman who had spoken to the parents on my behalf now just looked amused. She was on the kid's side. My husband did something to try to help: he made a kiddie gurgling sound to get the kid's attention off me. In the meantime, I popped a Xanax and tried to calm down. The Commie Baby eventually lost interest in me and decided instead to torment his mother (and the entire plane) by making a loud sound, "Bop!"
We took off an hour later, at which point my Xanax had kicked in and I was starting to think that this British show they aired, "My Father is the Prime Minister," was Must See TV.
