It’s been a weird couple weeks in the airline industry.  On one hand, you’ve got flight attendants hurling themselves down evacuation slides.  And, on another, you’ve got a stewardess who snatched a baby away from her abusive mother at 20,000 feet in the air.

I very rarely pay attention to my flight attendants … sad, but true.  Unless they’re really, ridiculously good-looking … or really, ridiculously obnoxious, they are nary a blip on my radar.  Airplanes are the only chance I ever get to read, it seems.  I grab a trashy novel or something similar and block out all other stimuli.   Yesterday, I read “Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang” on my way to Philly.  I feel sorry for the person seated next to me as I constantly snorted at Chelsea Handler’s musings.   I fell asleep twice on the flight and managed to drool on my book.  (No one panic … it was hardcover.)  The only reason I woke up was when I was beaned with a bag of pretzels.

Knock wood … I’ve never been in a crisis situation on an airplane.  I’ve never had a flight attendant bellow “ASSUME CRASH POSITIONS!”  And the only time I’ve been slightly annoyed with my in-air purser is when I was denied peanuts.  Seems someone on the flight had a severe peanut allergy.  I politely offered to shove that passenger off the plane, but the flight attendant declined.

“May I eat the peanuts in the bathroom with the door closed?” I asked.

“No,” said the flight attendant.  She vaguely resembled my third grade teacher, Miss Svoboda.  I think Miss Svoboda was a man, but the “Miss” part always threw me off.

“What if I don’t open the bag of peanuts?  What if I eat the whole thing … foil wrapper included.”  (Would a clever ruse work?)

“Again, no,” she responded.

“What if I open a bag of peanuts that I brought from another plane and wolf them down in front of you?”  (I was raising the stakes and upping the ante at the same time.)

“Sir, you don’t have another bag of peanuts.  Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me for some,” she scolded.  Stupid flight attendants and their stupid rationale.  She had called my bluff.

Yesterday during a brief pee-break, I asked the flight attendant if I could have a few more bags of peanuts to scarf on.  She handed me FIVE bags … and she winked.  Obviously we were on the same page.

I wanted to lament my tale of woe about Miss Svoboda to her, but she was busy mixing herself a Cape Cod.

Attagirl!