My nose is broken. Not in a broken bones kind of way. In an olfactory kind of way. The smell function has gone kaput. I realized this unfortunate malady the other day when we were on a plane to Florida. We pretend to go to Florida for the sunshine, but really we’re just excited that other people are eating in restaurants as early as we are.
We’ve made it through TSA, which I’m convinced stands for Totally Sucks Ass, and now we’re sitting on the airplane flying at 30,000 feet. My younger son, Holden, has apparently taken some NoDoz when I wasn’t looking. And Zoey is comatose in front of the iPad watching Caillou— that painfully annoying, stupid-ass, crappity crap show about some bald whiney kid who’s Canadian so he ends all of his sentences on an annoying up note. No offense to all of the Canadians reading my blog. All two of them. Thanks to Caillou, my iPad is now herPad.
I can hear the people behind us talking about something that smells bad and I realize that Holden needs a diaper change, which wouldn’t be a big deal except the seatbelt sign is illuminated so we have to change him on the tray table. Don’t worry, we scrubbed it down with hand sanitizer afterwards. Not really, but let’s just pretend we did. Besides, I’m sure the airlines clean them really well between flights. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Anyway, towards the end of the flight, I get a whiff of the poopie smell again, and this time luckily we can use the lavatory. Greg offers to change Holden, which sounds like he’s trying to be nice but really he just can’t take Caillou anymore. You know how they won’t let people with children sit in the exit row? It’s because they know we’ll jump out if given the chance.
While Greg is gone with my little poop machine, I can hear the people talking behind me again. Apparently one of them is actually getting sick over the smell. Hmm, I don’t really smell anything, but when Greg gets back I’ll ask him to take Zoey next. As soon as he picks her up, I see it. Like a brown amoeba growing before your eyes, a wet stain is oozing up the back of her pants. I shit you not. She does, but I don’t.
As soon as Greg leaves with her, I get a whiff of it. Why on earth didn’t those oxygen masks drop from the ceiling?
So here’s the bad part. That’s right, I haven’t even gotten to the bad part yet. The seat she’s been sitting in is made out a dark pattern to disguise stains, but I can still make out a giant wet spot on more than half of the seat cushion. Apparently some people drop the kids off at the pool, and some drop them off in seat 27F. Who knew your seat cushion can be used as a floatation device and a floater device?
I casually cover the wet spot with a burp cloth, and wait for Greg to get back with our daughter, the Grand Poo-bah. When he does I tell him what happened. He says, “I know,” and kindly hands me a baggie with the spontaneously-combustible pants inside. “We have to tell the flight attendant,” I say, worried for the person who has to sit in the seat on the next flight. You know, unless the flight isn’t oversold and it’s an empty seat. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. “What if they charge us for the cleaning?” he worries. $35 for extra leg room. $50 for a poopie seat. Man, these airlines will milk you for anything.
Still, I can’t in good conscience leave the airplane without saying something, so on the way out I whisper to the flight attendant, “You might want to check seat 27F. I think my daughter’s diaper leaked a little.” Can you blame me for downplaying it?
But the fact that I didn’t smell the culprit poop for so long makes me wonder. After changing over 1,000 poopie diapers is it possible my nose has officially broken? Or is it like a Brita pitcher and I need to change the filter or something? I’ll have to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond to see if they carry them. And what section would they be in? Bath or Beyond? Who am I kidding, of course they have it. They carry everything! And I even have a 20% off coupon.