Mucus, Potatoes, and Missing Rubber

I find it hard to believe I ever thought flying was fun. The more I travel, the more reasons I find to become a homebody...although not in the domestic sense, more in the lunatic, hermit shut-in sense.

First there was my hellish flight to Alaska, a 13-hour flight that turned into a three-day ordeal. Then this week I flew to California on a business trip. We boarded the plane without incident, but fifteen minutes after we should have taken off, the captain made an announcement.

The captain is young and has a certain doofus charm, in that he tells a story like a six-year-old, leaving in every detail. There is a problem with the plane. But don't worry! Not a big problem! It's just a little--the mechanic noticed--I mean it's not a big problem--OK, see, what it is, is, a tiny piece of padding that cushions the wing is broken off--or missing--it's just a four-inch piece of rubber, actually, that's all. And it's missing. And technically we don't need it to fly. But, to fly without it, you need to file maintenance exception paperwork, which is time-consuming, so the mechanics will just order up a replacement part and have that fixed in a jiffy.

20 minutes later: The captain makes another announcement. The replacement part has arrived. But, well, it doesn't fit. The mechanics are just going to file it down, to make it fit, or cut it, or something, and then we'll be on our way, with our four-inch piece of rubber.

20 minutes later: OK, the four-inch piece of rubber doesn't fit, because, apparently what happened is, the old part broke off and half of it is now jammed into the hole and they can't fit the new piece in because the old piece is still in there, so they're just going to try to drill that old piece out, except that might take a while, so, um, they are going to look for that missing paperwork again, because really we don't even need this four-inch piece of rubber. And, in case they can't find the paperwork, the captain is going to request a replacement plane.

An eternity later: Well, folks, the mechanics can't find the right form number. But they're looking for it! And as soon as they find the right form to fill out and submit, we'll be approved to take off. Without our four-inch piece of rubber. But don't worry! It's not a safety issue! He has two little children at home with his wife and he is going to see them tonight! He absolutely would not fly this plane if he thought it wasn't safe!

Meanwhile I'm thinking, Screw safety...PAPERWORK? Seriously? I hope this was just an outdated figure of speech. They haven't yet heard of that marvellous invention, the computer? They can't submit this form electronically? I'm imagining the mechanics in a dusty back room, rummaging through filing cabinets full of triplicate forms with white, blue, and yellow tissue paper separated by layers of carbon paper. Come on, even the IRS accepts on-line filing!

Later: They've found the right paperwork!

Much later: BUT, well, folks, it's a lot harder to cancel a replacement plane than it is to file the paperwork, in fact it's almost impossible to cancel a requisitioned plane--I guess replacement planes are sensitive and don't take rejection well. So, after 2.5-3 hours on the runway, we will be deplaning and then re-boarding our new plane, which has all of its rubber in place. Even though, we now have both the paperwork and the new rubber part.

I finished reading the book I thought would last me through the entire flight before we even leave the airport. Fortunately, having flown Kafka's Airline to Hell and Back before, I am prepared, and have two more paperbacks in my carry-on. Every one of them deals with violent death.

5pm: I arrive at my destination, only 5 hours late.

I shouldn't complain about the delayed flight considering what awaited me at my destination: a convention for ear-nose-and-throat physicians. At one exhibitor's booth I watched them test implements to flush heavy mucus from nasal cavities--using peanut butter to simulate the mucus. I will never look at a jar of Jif the same way again.

I almost picked up a Larry the Larynx plush toy for $10, but I'm not sure my six-year-old niece would go for it. I mean, it didn't even have arms or legs. It was basically a stuffed tube with a smile.

There were some cute sticky notes shaped like tracheas and inner ears and body parts I couldn't even identify. I was tempted to get a few. If you receive a notepad shaped like a cochlea in your Christmas stocking this year, you'll know I'm your Secret Santa!

I kept passing this booth that seemed to have a number of brown, vaguely potato-shaped objects laid out on the counter. I was racking my brain, trying to guess what part of the ear-nose-throat anatomy could be considered potato-shaped. Adenoids? Sinuses? Blobs of ear wax? What is a brown and oval and has to do with otolaryngology?




Finally I asked the guys working at the booth, "What is that?"

The answer:

A POTATO.

This company's product is designed to stop bleeding, and is made of potato extract. Hence, the potato promotional toy. I haven't measured it, but it looks to me like a four-inch piece of rubber.

It was free, and I loved potatoes even before I knew they had valuable medical uses. I could already tell the rubber potato would be a big hit back in the office. Not as awesome as the Fleet EneMan plush superhero enema bottle, but much more ergonomic for throwing across the room in a fit of rage, and bouncing off a cubicle wall, and leaving on someone's chair or desk as a mysterious, wordless message, like instead of "Soon you'll sleep with the fishes," something like "Beware, the potato is watching" or "Soon you will be deep-fried."

The best part though came later that night. I stopped at Nordstrom's on my way back to my hotel, tried on some clothes and perfume, and ate a salad for dinner in the Nordstorm's cafe, then stopped by the ladies' room. Where the potato rolled out of my coat pocket and into the stall next to mine without my noticing.

I was washing my hands when a woman came out of the stall behind me, holding the rubber potato between two fingers. "Is this yours?"

Yes. Yes, that is my rubber blood-coagulating potato. Thank you very much.