Hot Enough For You?

Miss Tastrophie is not one for idol small talk. I mean, she can chit chat with the best of them while standing in line at the liquor store, but she has no patience for the stupid. So asking her if it's hot enough for her while the mercury is pegged at triple digits and she is sweating in places Gawd NEVER intended for her to sweat, is just stupid and might get you a free can of the smack down. Just sayin'....

Anyway, Miss Tastrophie was on her way home a few weeks ago from a nice little visit with the fam. (GAWD love them - they are a hoot, but couldn't get their collective rears to the church on time for their own funeral if it killed them) when she found herself sitting in the airport waiting lounge. First off, this was a new experience for our heroine as she previously existed only in a world of the Admiral's Club, Elite check-in, and First Class. Now she finds herself sitting in coach, using the kiosk, and flying Southwest. It's sad, but we hope she will be able to adjust to this new found life style without going all Wynonna Rider five finger discount at Nordstroms.

While sitting and knitting I got the grand pleasure of listening to three passengers talk about how hot it was (close to triple digits) and how the media was reporting how horrible it was that the members of a certain pro-football team were being made to practice in this gawd-awful heat. What with them being in tee shirts and shorts and blasted by oversized industrial fans equipped with water misting equipment. The indignity of having to wear their pads and run drills that required fancy footwork, tires, and a lot of throwing and catching while sweating like a virgin on prom night. (Somebody call Amnesty International on this travesty.) All this while collecting a paycheck that at the VERY LEAST has one comma and six digits BEFORE the decimal. Some having two commas and seven digits before the decimal. Now, I'm not innocent in this little discussion. I agreed with them that it was hotter than bejesus out there and I thank GAWD for the genius who invented central air 'cause I don't do sweat, but then again I also don't have a paycheck with six digits before the decimal. Nor I don't go a b*tchin' to the media about how awful my job is. I am very grateful to even have a job in the suck economy. (I just do my moanin' and groanin' to you fine people).

After fifteen minutes of listening to the heat-index trio, I had reached my max on the whinny. So ever so sweetly, I had to butt into their conversation to put things into a little perspective - Miss Tastrophie Style!

Miss T (said in my sweetest southern belle style equipped with just enough sarcasm to be my oh-so-subtle self): Excuse me, but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation - because apparently after the third beer in the airport lounge, you'all forgot that normal human beings have good hearing and whining at the top of your lungs is almost as annoying as your conversation topic. I am sure the fine folks at gate 38 -(we were at gate 30) - have enjoyed hearing you as well. Anyhoo, I think it's nice that you care for our fabulous members of KC's finest, yet constantly choking it, football team and are worried that the heat is just too much for a bunch of spoiled-over-paid-should-have-majored-in-something-useful-as-a-back-up-plan-football players. I think we need a little perspective here.

Right now, this country has service men and women who are fighting in countries that regularly peg the triple digit mark on the mercury scale.

They sport 60 plus pounds of protective gear that could barely stop a hot rock let alone a piece of shrapnel from an IED. Which they have to wear regardless of whether or not they are going outside their tent to patrol or to use the head (toilet for all you non-military types). And I know for a fact that not one of them is touting a six digit paycheck to the bank. More like a three digit paycheck that will barely cover the rent on my luxury apartment. So before you go all flower power on me; no I am not making a statement about whether I do or don't support the wars. What I am saying is I DO support my military families. And while your complaining about some hot-shot pro player who entertains you for four hours on Sunday and the suffering he must go through, I think your concern would be better placed on the poor Private First Class who stands ready to give his life for your ability to watch the freakin game on your HD flat screen in your air conditioned living room. Don't you?

After which I smiled my best "love ya, mean it" smile and went right back to my knit 2, purl 2 ribbing on the oh so fabulous scarf I have on my bamboo needles. Funny thing was, it got a lot quieter in the lounge and a I swear I heard the distinctive sound of hands clapping from gate 38.