by Jenny Lawson
I have to admit that occasionally I’m the one causing the scene. Like the time I bought an antique basket in California but it wouldn’t fit in my suitcase so I decided to carry it on like a purse, except that it was a basket made out of a dead armadillo and the handle was its tail and it didn’t fit under the seat so I tried to hide him in my lap but the flight attendant was like, “Ma’am, you need to place your … uh … armadillo in the overhead compartment?” and I said, “I can just hold him. He’s carry-on. And carrion.” She made me stuff him under the seat but he wouldn’t fit and I ended up sighing to my seatmate that I’d just chipped two nails on my armadillo and this is exactly why people hate to fly. I considered keeping a nail file in my armadillo for the future (tucking the file under one of his armored plates so it would fold down when you didn’t need it) and it sounded like such a good idea that I thought you could probably add a cheese knife and a corkscrew and make a Swiss Army Armadillo. A Swiss Army Dillo. I made a note on my phone to create a Swiss Army Dillo but spell-check changed it to “Create a Swiss Army Dildo,” which frankly just seems painful and excessive.
Victor believes that people turning into assholes is a new phenomenon, because flying twenty years ago was much easier and less stressful. I have to take his word on that one because my family always drove or camped on our vacations. This included a summer trip to Lost Maples (age nine), when we returned to my grandparents’ camper after a morning of fishing to discover that a band of squirrels had chewed a hole through the cloth of the pop-up camper and shit everywhere. It was like a shit sprinkler had gone off in there and we were horrified but also grudgingly impressed. Perhaps the neighborhood squirrels were mad because they could see campers relieving themselves in the woods and were like, “Really, asshole? You just shit in my living room. Now this is happening in your living room. I can do this all day, motherfucker.” Hard to say. Squirrels can be real conundrums.
Still, angry, shitty squirrels can’t hold a candle to angry, shitty people in airports and if you’ve ever doubted this you’ve probably never seen a person refuse to switch seats so that a parent can sit with their very small child who was inexplicably assigned a seat on the opposite side of the plane. Once, in Chicago, I saw a man refuse to switch seats with a mother who’d bought a seat for her ten-month-old but hadn’t been given a seat next to the baby. She asked the man who was assigned the seat beside her if he could sit in the same window seat a few rows away and he refused. “I’m sitting in the seat assigned to me because those are the rules. THIS IS MY SEAT,” he grumped as he sat down huffily. What I really wanted was for that mother to stand up and say, “You know what? Fine. This is the baby’s seat anyway. I’m two rows behind you guys. Have a good flight, baby. Hope you like screaming and urine, sir.” Of course the surrounding passengers quickly gave up their seats to switch around before it ever came to that, which is sort of a shame because it would have been a just punishment. Sitting next to a crying, kicking baby on an airplane is not fun, and is almost as hellish as being the parent of a crying, kicking baby on an airplane, which is practically as terrible as being the crying, kicking baby on an airplane.
Last year CNN brought me on live TV to discuss a proposal to create “kid-free planes,” and I explained if we were really going to start segregating passengers I’d prefer to ride in an “a-hole-free plane” because babies almost never ask you to join the Mile-High Club, or clip their toenails while in flight, or do any of a plethora of horrible things I’ve witnessed from others. The CNN anchor seemed slightly aghast that I’d said “a-hole” and “Mile-High Club” live on air, but they really should have expected it because several months earlier they asked me about “mommies and politics” and I explained (on air) that I don’t usually write about either subject but that I thought it was a little condescending for anyone to call me “Mommy” unless they’d personally come out of my “lady garden.” I also explained that I’d like political candidates to present their prep plans for the zombie apocalypse, or for the robot revolution, or for when the Internet becomes self-aware, because at least then the debates would be more interesting.
Surprisingly, CNN has not asked me on again. (Although I would like to note that I asked the woman on the pre-call if I could say “vagina” on TV and she said she thought I’d better not, so I said, “Well … can I say ‘my lady garden’?” English was not her first language so she needed help on that one, yelling, “Is ‘my lady garden’ okay?” to the people near her, and she said that no one seemed to have a problem with it. Of course, it’s possible that no one had a problem with it because there wasn’t any context so no one knew that it was a euphemism, or maybe everyone in the office assumed that the woman was fishing for compliments about her lady garden. Regardless I think it all worked out for CNN because that clip ended up being the most popular video of the day and it was nice to be able to call my parents and proudly tell them, “My lady garden is going viral.” In hindsight, that may have been a poor choice of phrasing.)
Victor travels at least weekly for business and thinks that increased security at airports is what’s making people insane, because they seem to lose all sense of logic in the security line. One time Victor witnessed a guy carrying a gallon of homemade iced tea in his carry-on. The TSA agent pulled out the leaking jug and looked at it like it was a severed arm, and then said, “Sir, I just asked you if you had any liquids.” Then the man testily replied, “I don’t. That’s iced tea.” The agent paused for a second, sighed, and explained that “iced tea is a liquid,” to which the passenger condescendingly replied, “No, dumb-ass. IT’S A BEVERAGE.”
Then the TSA agent hit him with a piñata stick.
Or that’s how it would have worked out in my world.
Everyone gets caught accidentally sneaking weird stuff through security sometimes though. Our friend Jason travels with us a lot and is forever bringing inappropriate things through airports. Last month Victor and Jason went to a conference in Vegas and Jason tried to bring through an industrial-sized jar of hair gel from Costco.
“It was like something from a barber college,” Victor told me later. “And security was like, ‘Sir, you’re like seventy-two ounces over the limit.’ Jason just shrugged, scooped out a big handful, and put it on his hair for later. It was like the size of a Crisco can. You could have put both hands in there.” I tried to convince Victor that Jason was probably doing this on purpose to fuck with him.
“Nope. He did the same thing in China last year. He told me he bought a bottle of wine and they wouldn’t let him bring it on and so he angrily drank it in security so it wouldn’t be wasted.”
“Well,” I said. “That showed them.”
“Yeah. It showed them what a drunk American looks like trying to put his shoes back on. And he did the same thing when we were in Mexico last year. Remember when he bought two liters of hot sauce at the airport?”
“Yeah, that was awesome,” I said, nodding. “But I’m pretty sure we were all too drunk to remember we hadn’t gone through security yet. Besides, isn’t hot sauce a beverage?” Victor glared at me but I bet he was laughing on the inside.
* * *
But in a bring-this-whole-thing-full-circle sort of way, I’m starting to suspect that maybe the reason why people are jerks at airports is because of the zombie apocalypse.
I’ll explain:
Have you ever noticed that all of the stuff on the posters of what you can’t bring into the airport terminal is pretty much exactly the same stuff that would come in really handy if a zombie apocalypse broke out? Swords, guns, grenades, meat cleavers, fire, disinfectant, booze, chain saws: these are all things I’d want on me if there were a zombie epidemic in Terminal B. Basically, if we get attacked inside the airport we’re all fucked, so maybe people are just scared because they’ve been disarmed. Even the phrasing of where you’re headed (the “terminal”) is another word for “approaching immediate death.”
But on the plus side, airport security probably has a giant stas
h of brass knuckles and grenades and chain saws that they’ve confiscated from people, so we could probably still arm ourselves if necessary. (Side note: Can you even buy brass knuckles anymore? I’d be pissed if I had to give up my brass knuckles at the airport. Those things are pricey.)
I often take photos of the posters showing the prohibited items you can’t take through security to use as an outline for preparing my own zombie prep kit and it’s interesting how they subtly change from airport to airport. Some of them can be quite intimidating and are filled with items you wouldn’t think you’d have to put on a sign, like machine guns and dynamite. Others focus more on having too much lotion. At our airport it says you can’t bring in snow globes. Swear to God. Snow globes. Which seems weird. It’s not like you’re going to be attacked by a zombie and think, “JESUS. If only I’d had my snow globe.”
Victor recently looked over my ever-growing list entitled “Things-Not-Allowed-Through-Security-That-Would-Be-Good-to-Have-During-the-Zombie-Apocalypse” and thought it was questionable. “Why do you have booze on your list?” he asked.
“You think I’m going into the zombie apocalypse sober?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Plus, alcohol is a good disinfectant.”
“I’m pretty sure butterscotch schnapps isn’t ideal for wounds.” He knew me too well. “And what’s this other stuff? Water guns? Lacrosse sticks? This is just a list of things you want to play with.”
“No,” I explained, glaring in a way that said Victor was stupid. “They’re weapons that don’t need ammunition. You can use the lacrosse stick to keep the zombies at a distance and then you squirt them with acid.”
“Acid … which would melt the water gun,” Victor replied.
“Ah,” I said. “Right. Fine. Then we fill it with holy water in case of vampires.”
“Vampires?”
I sighed at his ignorance. “Well, I think if zombies turn out to be real then all bets are off, Victor. In fact, I think I might need to start a whole new list labeled ‘In-Case-of-Vampires.’ BECAUSE I’M A PLANNER.”
Victor laughed and said I was getting a little defensive, but I’m pretty sure “defensive” is probably a good state of mind to be in when focused on prepping for monster attacks. Assholish and defensive. And unconcerned about babies, who will probably slow you down. And with piñata sticks you’ve sharpened into stakes in case of vampires. That’s how you survive.
So I guess maybe the airport isn’t always the worst place to be after all.
APPENDIX: AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR
What I want you to know: Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. Clinical depression is no fucking picnic.
When my last book came out I spent a lot of time avoiding people who wanted to interview me because I was afraid I’d say something wrong, or because I couldn’t find pants. I decided that this time around I’d just include an entire section with questions and answers, which you can use if you have a story due or need a quote. This seems like an odd use of a chapter but it’s nice because there are always things that you don’t get around to writing about, and apologies that need to be made, and all of that fits in here.
I realize that it’s weird that this appendix is in the middle of the book instead of at the end where appendixes are supposed to be, but it works better here, and technically your appendix is in the middle of your body so it sort of makes sense. Probably God had the same issue when Adam was like, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but it sort of hurts when I walk. Is that normal? Is this thing on my foot a tumor?” And God was like, “It’s not a tumor. That’s your appendix. Appendixes go at the end. Read a book, dude.” Then Adam was all, “Really? Because I don’t want to second-guess you but it seems like a design flaw. Also that snake in the garden told me it doesn’t even do anything.” And God shook his head and muttered, “Jesus, that fucking snake is like TMZ.” And then Adam was like, “Who’s Jesus?” and God said, “No one yet. It’s just an idea I’m throwing around.” And then God zapped Adam’s appendix off his foot and stuck it in Adam’s midsection instead in case he decided to use it later. But the next day Adam probably asked for a girlfriend and God was like, “It’s gonna cost you a rib,” and Adam was all, “Don’t I need those? Can’t you just make her out of my appendix?” And the snake popped out and hissed, “Seriously, why are you so attached to this appendix idea? Don’t those things occasionally explode for no reason whatsoever?” and God was like, “THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, JEFFERSON. I’M STARTING TO QUESTION WHY I EVEN MADE YOU.” And Adam was like, “Wait … what? They explode?” And God was all, “I’M NOT NEGOTIATING WITH YOU, ADAM.” And that’s why appendixes go in the middle and should probably be removed.
I’ve asked Victor to play the role of interviewer because no one else is here except the cats, who are crap at sticking to the subject. (Victor is the one in bold who is not entirely happy about being dragged into this. I’m the one not in bold who isn’t wearing pants.)
What am I even doing here?
You are pretending to be a reporter for prestigious publications. I need you to ask me interview questions so that other people can steal these quotes when I’m too weird to talk to them.
I have no idea what you want from me.
Luckily, I’m here to help. Start with a compliment. Something about my hair, maybe.
Okay. Is that your real hair?
Some of it. But it’s rude to ask that.
Oh. Sorry.
It’s fine. I forgive you. Just remember this act of kindness when you review my book. Also remember the word “revolutionary” and the phrase “buy a dozen copies for everyone you know.”
Why would I review your book? I’m your husband.
You’re supposed to be a reporter. My God. You are terrible at role-playing.
Fine. It seems like by this point in a book about depression you would have explained what depression is.
It’s hard to define.
Well, this is a book, so maybe try.
Fine.
Depression is like … it’s like when you meticulously scroll up through hundreds of pages in a Word document to find a specific paragraph you need to fix, and then you try to type but it automatically takes you right back down to the bottom because you forgot to place your cursor where you wanted to type. And then you bang your head against the desk because you just totally lost your place and then your boss walks in while you have your head planted on your desk and you see her shoes behind you so you immediately say, “I’m not sleeping. I was just banging my head against the desk because I fucked something up.”
Hmm.
Wait. No. That’s not it. Depression is like … when you don’t have any scissors to cut that thick plastic safety tie off the new scissors that you just bought because you couldn’t find your scissors. And then you just say, “Fuck it,” and try everything else in the world to get the scissors to open, but all you have are plastic butter knives and they aren’t doing anything, so you stand in the kitchen holding scissors that you can’t use because you can’t find scissors and then you get frustrated and throw the scissors in the garbage disposal and sleep on the couch for a week. And that’s what depression is like.
So…?
No. Hang on.
Depression is like … when you don’t want cheese anymore. Even though it’s cheese.
I want to be helpful but I don’t know if that means that I should ask you to elaborate or tell you to stop elaborating.
Okay. Let me rephrase. Sometimes being crazy is a demon. And sometimes the demon is me.
And I visit quiet sidewalks and loud parties and dark movies, and a small demon looks out at the world with me. Sometimes it sleeps. Sometimes it plays. Sometimes it laughs with me. Sometimes it tries to kill me. But it’s always with me.
I suppose we’re all possessed in some way. Some of us with dependence on pills or wine. Others through sex or gambling. Some of us through self-destruction or anger or fear. And some of us just carry around our tiny demon as he wre
aks havoc in our mind, tearing open old dusty trunks of bad memories and leaving the remnants spread everywhere. Wearing the skins of people we’ve hurt. Wearing the skins of people we’ve loved. And sometimes, when it’s worst, wearing our skins. These times are the hardest. When you can see yourself confined to your bed because you have no strength or will to leave. When you find yourself yelling at someone you love because they want to help but can’t. When you wake up in a gutter after trying to drink or smoke or dance away the ache—or the lack thereof. Those times when you are more demon than you are you.
I don’t always believe in God. But I believe in demons.
My psychiatrist always says, “But if you believe there are demons, then it follows that there could be a God. It’s like … believing in dwarves but not in Cyclopses.”
I consider pointing out that I’ve met several dwarves in my life and almost no Cyclopes, but I get what she’s saying. There can’t be dark without light. There can’t be a devil without the God who created him. There can’t be good without bad.
And there can’t be me without my demon.
I think I’m okay with that.
Or maybe it’s my demon that is.
It’s hard to tell.
My psychiatrist told me that when things get rough I should consider my battle with mental illness as if I were “exorcising a demon” and I was like, “Well, no wonder I’m failing so miserably. I’m shit at exercising.”
Then she called me out for deflecting with humor, and explained: “You are exorcising a demon. It’s not something you can do alone. Some people do it with a priest and holy water. Some do it with faith. Some do it with chemicals and therapy. No matter what, it’s hard.”
“And usually people end up with vomit on them,” I replied.
I’m seeing more of a connection. I wonder if I’m the priest in this scenario. I hope not because he almost always dies just when he thinks everything is fine. This analogy is starting to creep me out.