Christmas was lovely, and I’ll blog about that too, but this is the part I need to get off my chest:

An Open Letter to the Occupants of Seats 10D and 10E, Delta Flight 699 from Milwaukee to Atlanta, December 25:

If any member of my family gets pneumonia in the next few days, I consider it entirely your fault. Please take my overprotective mother characteristics into account when this note descends into being petty and mean.

Adult daughter: when you are so sick that you cough, on average, every 12 seconds during a 1 hour and 46 minute flight, you are too sick to fly. Especially if approximately 25% of those coughs are the kind that sound like a goose honking and cause you to double over in pain and exhaustion.

Also, when you cough like that on an airplane, it really is unfair of you not to cover your mouth. The handkerchief you used to blow your nose would have worked quite well for that purpose also.

Finally, you may want to find a new hairstylist who specializes color — that blonde? Looked like actual Barbie hair.

Mom: I’ve sat behind calmer, less disruptive toddlers on airplanes, and I don’t think that martini helped your cough either. Also? You probably would have been warmer — less likely to get sick in the first place? — if your pants and shirt met, instead of being separated by your muffin top. In the immortal words of Whitney Houston, “crack is whack.”

The only reason I did not flip out completely on you people is because today my son is on day 3 of a 5 day antibiotic that Dr. Madelaine assured us would even kill pneumonia if whatever-he-got on the first plane trip turned out to be that. But really! Jill and I don’t need pneumonia either.