To be fair, I was completely exhausted and probably a bit hungover after a few days of walking, gambling and boozing in Las Vegas, about to board a red-eye flight home.
I was also still a little riled up from a few ridiculously sexist interactions at CES 2013 that Liz and I had experienced.
Which is why it's a miracle I didn't go completely male flight attendant who called me "sweetheart" when I tried to get my small, undersized carry-on on the plane.
And no, it wasn't a nice "sweetheart" or a loving "sweetheart" it was a "Hey, you stupid bitch I'm going to say this because I'm pretending to be nice but I'm actually an asshole" kind of "sweetheart."
I've flown enough to know that if you've got a fairly small bag, you can bring it down the jetway and the flight attendants at the door should allow you to try to get your bag on if they haven't been notified from the back of the plane if there is absolutely no bin space left.
This happened on the way to Las Vegas, and the lovely female flight attendant told me to give it a try since she hadn't heard the official word from the back of the plane.
However, on this flight, the gate agents forced me to tag it, but when I got to the door, I figured it couldn't hurt to try; if I couldn't fit the bag in, I'd walk it back out myself.
But I couldn't even step onto the plane without this guy basically grabbing the bag out of my hand and forcing me to put it aside for checking.
"Is there absolutely no space," I asked him. "Because I'd really like to try to bring it on if..." He interrupted me.
"No, sweetheart. It has a tag. It has to be checked."
I don't even remember if that's what he said because I was so pissed about him calling me "sweetheart."
Would he have called a guy "dude?"
I'm guessing a business traveler, or the like, who might have been treated just as rudely would have at least been afforded a "sir."
As I put my bag down and entered the plane, I looked him in the eyes and told him "Don't call me sweetheart" as I made my way back to my seat. And surprise, tons of overhead bin space, at which point I asked the flight attendant in the back if I could go get my bag to place it there.
"Sure!" she said. "Let's make room!"
Needless to say, I smiled smugly as I walked off the plane and back on again with my bag, the guy again trying to stop me until I interrupted him to say "I found a spot in the back and the flight attendant instructed me to come get my bag, HONEY."
Which was not a nice "honey" or a loving "honey" but a "screw you asshole" kind of "honey."
Next time I won't be so nice.