We’ve all been that airplane passenger rolling our eyes while some unseen baby either four rows behind or 20 rows ahead — it’s impossible to tell — cries the entire flight, its relentless wails punctuated occasionally by blood-curdling shrieks. The other day, somewhere over the Midwest w hen the screaming began, I was not just the passenger. I was the baby’s mother. And the baby was my 13-pound terrier, Riley. In my Park City friend group, we have a saying: Everything is fine. We even have T-shirts imprinted with the mantra and a mascot: a retro vixen lounging inside a martini glass. It’s our shorthand for surviving chaos with hair and lip gloss intact.  And there we were, at 30,000 feet — me clutching a Chomp beef stick and Riley crying from his crate underneath the seat in front of me like I was pulling a tooth without novocaine. That was when I realized everything was, in fact, not fine. And it was all my fault. I’d forgotten his Trazodone. We’d flown together a half-dozen times before and the medication always worked like a charm. Of course, I’d only realized my mistake after I was inside SLC en route to my hometown of Rochester, New York, by way of Detroit. Well, I guess we’re raw-dogging it, I thought to myself as we settled into our seat. At the very least, I had an emergency Benadryl and the beef stick I’d purchased at an airport shop that I only now realized was laced with jalapeño. But it was all I had. I broke off tiny pieces whenever the whimpering got out of control. Which I gauged by the number of passengers who whipped their heads around to locate the canine tormentor. I smiled back at them apologetically with the fixed expression women use when they’re publicly humiliated but still trying to appear pleasant. Everything is fine. And for awhile, it was. I had taken Riley out of the crate and was holding him on my lap. Two flight attendants pushed a cart by me and smiled at Riley adoringly. “Thank god you did that,” one of them said as if I had reluctantly agreed to release a hostage after a violent standoff. “Poor baby.” The passengers sitting around me said nothing, but I could feel their rolling eyes and almost hear their thoughts, “How dare you drag your poor emotional support puppy on here. Why can’t you leave him home and have a couple dozen cocktails like the rest of us?” Before long, Riley was getting antsy sitting on my lap, so I put him on the floor at my feet. As I was trying to get him back into the carrier, another flight attendant came by and said, “Ms. Sonnick, federal aviation rules require your dog to be in the carrier.” “That’s what I’m trying to do.” “Well, you should never have had him out in the first place. I’m going to report you to the FAA,” he declared as he whisked away. The threat echoed in my gut worse than the chidings of a pack of nuns. “I’m going straight to hell,” I thought as I watched the flight path on the seat-back screen in front of me, the tiny airplane inching along like a frozen thermometer. Finally, we landed at DTW. I averted my eyes as I passed the irate flight attendant, as if the mere sight of him might turn me into a pillar of jalapeño beef stick. Once inside the airport, I let Riley out and he emerged from the abyss, tail wagging and smiling up at me as if nothing had happened. Our long national nightmare is over, I thought. But it was only the beginning. My two-hour layover in DTW turned into four, thanks to storms parked directly over the Great Lakes. Around midnight, the gate agent announced the plane had arrived and would soon begin boarding. Everything is fine. Three minutes later, she abruptly announced the crew was fatigued and the flight was canceled. It was now midnight, and along with every other eastbound passenger, I’d have to rebook for the next day and try to find a hotel that wasn’t sold out due to storm delays. All because the pilots were ty-ty? Are you effing kidding me? I thought. Drink a Red Bull. I want to go home. But somewhere between my anxiety-ridden dog, the delays, the FAA threats and the tenth hotel reservations agent cheerfully informing me they were fully booked, it occurred to me that the pilots were the only ones who seemed willing to admit that things were not fine. For most of us and especially for women, pretense is the only thing standing between civility and barbarism. We push through exhaustion. We keep calm and carry on. We maintain pleasantness at all costs. Except for those pilots. They were not fine. They were tired. And so they chose themselves. And in doing that, they chose the rest of us too. My checked bag still trapped in airport limbo, Riley and I finally reached the hotel at 2 a.m. I had zero remaining emotional resources and no personal effects except a few bites of jalapeño beef stick and a half tube of lipgloss. I didn’t even have a toothbrush. That’s when I decided to stop pretending everything was fine. Back at DTW the next morning, I had a new mantra: zero fucks. I hid pieces of a sausage patty stolen from the breakfast bar into Riley’s carrier, and he walked right in. I slid the carrier under the seat and unzipped a small opening so he could stick his head out. The flight attendant informed me this was against FAA regulations. Riley’s head could not stick out, and the carrier had to be turned sideways. She ordered my seatmate to hand over his backpack so it would fit. “Can I just grab my gum first?” he asked. Zero fucks. “Oh, can I have a piece?” He smiled and handed me a stick. “Cute dog, by the way.” Maybe everything is fine right up until when somebody finally admits it isn’t. Next time, I swear I won’t forget the Trazodone. One for Riley and one for me. The post Betty Diaries: Everything is fine appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less