The Blogher 09 Conference Weekend is over. I flew home on Sunday, to an empty house. My son was elsewhere, and I was going to have to fly the next day to get to him. My husband was still making his way across the country back to our home from his most recent gig.

Being in the house all alone after the Blogher09 weekend was seriously weird. My family wasn’t there, and yet? There were also no head-splitting squees to make my ears bleed, no free drinks being shoved into my hand, and no one at all was smacking my ass. There weren’t even oodles of women photographing themselves kissing one another.

I was really not at Blogher09 anymore. Wow.

I know some of you are waiting to hear what I thought about the conference. That will come, but not just yet. I have some things to process… I have a mixed bag of feelings. I will tell you that there were fabulous times and there were also definitely not so fabulous times. I’ll try to find time soon to talk a bit about it – bear with me as I’m away from home right now.

On Monday, I flew to where my son was being cared for while I was in Chicago. After getting myself situated, I sat on the airplane which would take me half of the way to see my son again, waiting for it to take off. I was relaxed, with my head back and eyes closed, just waiting.

That’s when it happened.

A female passenger in the row directly in front of mine let everyone know that she does not, in fact, have a brain in her head. Or perhaps just enough of one to drive her life-sustaining organs and physical movements.

But forget rational thought.

The hobag was spraying perfume. On an airplane. A lot of it.

Um. No.

As what seemed to be every molecule of perfume in a full bottle flew right up my nose, my eyes snapped open. I glowered at the back of her seat, thinking, “Really? No, really?” and “I wonder if they kick a person off a plane for strangling another passenger while intermittently beating them with their own bottle of perfume.” And when the mental answer I gave myself to the latter question was “Uh, probably.” I continued by asking myself, “So, do you think you could get away with just cramming it up her ass?”

I told me that this was, most likely, also a bad idea. I am such drag.

Yes. I am volatile inside my mind. As anyone who has can tell you, though, I’m just a peach when you meet me. *wink*

But there I sat, willing the back of her seat to explode, taking her head with it.

I’m sensitive to smelly things. As the perfume invaded my nasal membranes and infested my brain, the physical symptoms began.

First the intense disgust and nausea set in. And look, if my stomach is going to be doing the “oh baby, we might need immediate evacuation” dance, I better have at least had a full night of partying like it was 1999 (perhaps even in close proximity to a unicorn shaped confectionary item?) while drinking 7x my body weight in liquor and passing out in places other than my own hotel room. (Thereby worrying a large number of people who end up wondering if I am dead, kidnapped, or sitting in jail with a black eye and ripped fishnets.) *coughcoughbloghercough*

Not that I’ve ever been in such a situation, mind you. *COUGH* But, you know, I’m just sayin.

After about 10 minutes of feeling like I was going to puke the puke of outrageous proportions (while repeatedly, mentally ripping the skin off perfume bitch’s face and then making her eat it) the nausea subsided.

Then the sinus headache began.

Ohhhh, the glory of the in-flight sinus headache.

While I willed that to go away, the pressure in my head sang to my internal thoughts, driving them into ever more violent imaginings of how the perfume bitch needed to be punished.

I’m all better now, though, so I’ll just say that there’s a job waiting for her at a Perfume Counter in Hell, but if I ever see her on a flight again, I will grab her carry-on and restrict her access from it. Forever. Because I am going to burn it.

Possibly while she’s crammed inside of it.

Of course all of this and more is worth enduring to see my son again. As I wrote this, I was almost halfway there.

I’d be willing to snort 10 perfume factories and be beaten with a million raw fishheads just to get back to my boy.

I only want to cram him inside a suitcase every once in awhile.