Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eaters

I'm going to need an official ruling as to whether it is "cheater, cheater pumpkin eaters" which suggests that "pumpkin eaters" is modified by both cheater and cheater (like "big, ugly troll") or if it is supposed to be "cheater, cheater, pumpkin eaters" which suggests that the "cheater" parts are a calling or greeting to the pumpkin eaters (as in "hey, hey, Paula"). I think it is the latter.


But that's not the story. The story is how I got trapped on a plane next to a middle-aged couple who proceeded to regale me with tales of how they cheated on their spouses with each other for TEN YEARS before finally divorcing them and marrying each other. But let me start from the beginning.


I spent the weekend at home in Boston visiting the loving Patto, the cats, and a few friends I have not seen since I moved to Chicago a month ago. On Sunday evening Patrick dropped me off at the Rhode Island airport (only an hour south of Boston and full of cheaper flights). I discovered that my flight had been delayed an hour, and plopped down at the Friday's inside the terminal and happily read my book over a glass of Shiraz and the pecan-crusted chicken salad (v. tasty). The couple across from me looked to be in their mid-late-40s, and were having a few beers and working sudoku puzzles together. They were there the whole time I was (more than an hour), and each drank about three beers. Anyway, while I was looking up and paying my bill, the woman asked me if I was going to Chicago, too (it's a small airport, so the odds were in her favor). I said yes and we chatted a bit about our travels. She and her husband were very nice, and I had a nice time talking to them. As we were packing up our things to go to the gate, they announced that they were in the "A" section of Southwest, which means they would get to board first, and if I wanted, they would save me a seat at the front of the plane since I was way back in the "C" section and was guaranteed to be seated across from the lavatories. I said that would be great. Silly, silly me.

Sure enough, when I boarded the plane, they waved cheerfully from the fourth row and the woman moved over from the window seat she was guarding to the middle so that I could take the window. I sat down and we continued to chat. They were friendly if not a little verbose, but I attributed that to the several beers they drank in Friday's. We get into the air and they each ordered another beer. And one for me, too, since they were so happy they didn't get stuck sitting next to a lunatic (heh, little do they know). Around their second air-beer (I was still working on the first), they start telling me about how they met. He's a dentist, she was his assistant, and they started having an affair in 1991. I was like, "come again?" Oh yes. Ever see Reba? They were both married to other people, and they starting filling me in on all the fake work conferences they would go to in Vegas and FL, and how they almost got caught all these times, and about their other covert activities.

Now, WHY would you tell someone whom you've just met, and whom you know is on her first (and God willing, last) husband all about your 10 year affair and about what a dope your ex is and how you made him/her pay for things that you ended up getting for your mistress/mistern? Anyway, over the course of the next 2 hours I was privy to all sorts of information I didn't want to hear. I probably should have insisted on paying for my beer at that point, but I admit I drank it in the name of their cuckolded spouses. I think we can all agree that buying me a beer was the least they could do for making me listen to their VERY sordid tale.

Towards the end of the flight the woman turns to me and says, "you know, I have a bladder infection" (I told you they wanted to share ALL of their personal details with me), "but I think the beer is helping it." Now. Anyone who has ever had a UTI knows that alcohol is one of the worst things you can drink when you have a bladder infection. I told her that I knew that cranberry juice was supposed to help heal things up right away, but I admit it, I didn't tell her that alcohol was going to make it worse. I tell myself that it wouldn't have mattered, that she was too drunk by that point to make a difference, and that at least I told her about the cranberry juice, right? Right?

A bit unethical, I know. Shame on me. But I just don't feel that guilty.