Memories Of An Exit Row Hero

**As you may recall, I was planning to use this post to share some of my foolproof online dating tips. Unfortunately, since true love doesn’t care about promises I make on my blog, I haven’t had time to finish it. The good news is that because my dating tips are so effective, I’m currently in the middle of a messy love triangle with a guy posing as two different guys.

Only time will tell if I choose the right one. In the meantime, I thought I’d use this opportunity to give back, by republishing an old post that I really think brings out my charitable nature.


Exit Row Hero


If I had to pick one word to describe me, it would be Humanitarian.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a passion for rescuing others. While my friends had dreams of marrying Johnny Depp; I dreamed of finding him in cardiac arrest and shocking him back to life with a defibrillator.

Recently, while on a flight to San Francisco, my dreams of becoming a real-life hero finally came to fruition.

When I checked in for my flight, the attractive agent asked if I wanted to sit in the exit row. “We usually charge extra,” he said. “But I’ll waive the fee this time.”

Thanks to Cosmo I’m really good at reading between the lines. “Is that because you want me to have sex with you?” I asked, casually tracing a figure eight stretching around both my nipples

He said it was because there were seats available and most people preferred the extra leg room. But I could tell by the way he refused eye-contact that he was hiding his true feelings.

Shortly after boarding, the crew started their in-flight safety demonstration. Because I don’t like listening to boring things, I grabbed my iPhone to check my messages.

“Excuse me miss.” I looked up and saw a flight attendant standing over me, giving me the evil eye. “I must insist that you listen to the safety announcement.”

I told her I had faith in the pilots’ abilities and if she didn’t then perhaps she should look into another line of work.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “You’re in the exit row. That means you are responsible for opening the hatch if anything happens.”

She handed me a safety brochure. “Read this.”

While skimming through it, my eyes zoomed in on the following:

You might suffer bodily harm as a result of performing one or more of the emergency exit functions listed on this safety card.

I handed it back. Then I politely explained that while I had no problem doing her job for her, my condition prevented me from performing any potentially dangerous activities.

“I…have…type…two…Asthma,” I said, coughing between words. “It’s malignant.”

“If you don’t agree to the terms, I am going to have to move you to another seat.”

“But you can’t!This seat was given to me by the ticket agent as a token of his wanting to have sex with me.”

I told her that one of the symptoms of my disease was impulsiveness, and if she made me move I might accidentally announce over the loud speaker that she was racist against Type-Two Malignant Asthmatics. Then I rested my head on the shoulder of the old man next to me and pretended to pass out.

Shortly after the plane left the tarmac, I noticed a young boy sitting across the aisle. He was covering his ears with his hands.

“My ears!” he screamed. “Mommy my ears are hurting!”

His distressed-looking mother gave him a stick of chewing gum. He chucked it to the floor.


She told him to calm down. He responded by spitting on her fake Lululemon pants. (I know they were fake because I’m a label whore.) Visibly frustrated, she grabbed him by the arm and started scolding him.

Because I watch a lot of hidden camera shows, I could tell this was a set-up. It was obvious that John Quinones was somewhere on the plane, waiting to film my reaction to everyday dilemmas that test my character and values.


Since I had no intention of being known as “Asshole Who Sits There And Does Nothing” I grabbed the kids’ other arm and pulled it toward me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The mother asked. She started pulling his arm harder.

I stood up to get more traction.

 Eventually, she lost her grip.  I yanked the hysterical kid away and sat him down on my lap.

“Don’t worry, ” I said, petting his tear-stained face.  “Everything’s going to be okay. I’m your mommy now.”

When he wouldn’t stop crying, I gently placed the oxygen mask over his mouth. Then I told Pussin Temple Drive (Named after my old cat and the street I grew up on) that he was coming to live with me and that he would never have to feel ashamed again because his new mommy was a MILF who only wore real brand name yoga pants.

Just as I was about to give Pussin a snack, two burly-looking men sitting a few rows ahead stood up and walked over.

“What seems to be the problem here?” the least-hot-one asked.

“She took my son!” Pussin’s old mother said, pointing at me. “And now she’s trying to breast-feed him!!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.  As I re-fastened the buttons on my shirt, I explained to the men that everything was under control and it would all make sense when John Quinones came out and revealed himself.

In the end, it turned out there was no hidden camera. Apparently John Quinones was away on vacation and the whole messed-up scenario had been legit.

Deep down, I was relieved. I knew in my heart that I wasn’t ready to be a mother. Not to mention the fact that because I live in an adults only building, Pussin would have had to sleep in the shed.

Still, even though my heroic efforts weren’t aired on National television, that doesn’t make me any less of a hero. If anything, I think it makes me an even bigger hero, since I was unable to use my selflessness to promote my still undetermined (but open to offers) career.

*FYI- While the airlines have yet to send me a letter of recognition and/or lift my three-year flight ban, I know they appreciated my efforts.


Woman. It’s What’s For Dinner.

To everyone who sent me an email asking if I’m alive (Mom, Auntie Doris, Guy from the Credit Card Collection Agency), the answer is yes. It’s just that I’ve been busy. Because summer is here and I don’t know how to use a lawnmower, I’ve decided to start dating again.

Since most of my relationships have been with guys who I met after they groped me at the bar, the idea of finding love online seemed hopeless. But once I figured out the equation for success, I was able to overcome my fears and now I find myself having to turn potential suitors away.

Equation for Online Dating Success:

Exaggerated Income + Lowered Standards = Dating Success


I’ll post some of my other online dating tips later, right now I’m preparing to entertain a guy I met on (see below). Not to sound cocky, but given his insatiable appetite for women and my woman-like qualities, I’m pretty sure this one’s in the bag.



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