After a struggle to wake in the morning, I finally made it to the airport for my fifth quickest trip turn around, heading out to Portland today for OSCON 2006. I had managed to sleep fairly well, if shortened hours, waking only to hear Kris yell, "Stop her!" at me, referring to Bella, who was eating the remains of Heather's underwear she had just thrown up. I'm not sure which was more amazing: that I managed to miss the first 6" round pile of vomit on my way around the bed to Bella, or that the vomit covered elastic band was actually tasty enough to her to re-eat. I had the distinct displeasure of pulling half of it from out of her throat by grabbing the other end and pulling.
Yeah. Good times.
At the airport, before my flight, I used the restroom, following my standard modus-operandus for air travel. As I sat on the toliet (having wiped it off, of course), I started smelling cigarette smoke. It took a moment to register, as it's not a smell I associate with airports any longer.
I left the stall, and washed my hands, trying to decide if I should do anything about the smoker. Who smokes in an airport? In the bathroom? Yesterday's sandball altercation made me slightly shy about progressing along my personal development of standing up for myself, doing the right thing, and confronting fears, so the moments at the sink washing my hands were crucial moments.
I turned to the stalls, and my best Voice Of Authority, ordered, "The person smoking in these stalls should stop immediately." To my surprise, my heart didn't race, I didn't get the sick feeling after confronting someone. I did very little, but I at least expressed my displeasure of inhaling the smoke from the inconsiderate smoker.
As I left the bathroom, in a very small voice, I heard the reply to my order: