"All Standbys for Raleigh Approach the Gate"

I am extremely fortunate to work for an airline. I love my job. I love my friends at my job. I love the office building in which I spend the majority of my life. And, toiling in the airline industry does have its definite advantages. As in many specialized industries, there are all sorts of discounts and special deals that airline employees are privy to. The thing is, though, most of the traveling public is under the somewhat mistaken impression that we airline folks get free, unlimited air travel, wherever, whenever. While it is true that we are lucky to get very reduced cost or in some cases, technically free, travel (depending on length of employment), it is by no means any less true that there is a price to pay...there is always a price.

You see, the price that airline folks pay for air travel is called traveling by stand-by or non-rev(enue) travel. In general, this means that we show up at the airport, bags and kids and husbands, or wives as the case may be, in tow, and in many cases armed with vodka and/or mild barbituates, at the absolute butt crack of dawn for the very first flight of the day when we want to visit Grandma in Tulsa or Aunt Sally and Uncle Buford in Poughkeepsie.

We then wait, which could be a little while or could be all damned day, until a sometimes pleasant, but very oftentimes rude, surly, snide, power crazy, gate agent deigns to call our names and hand us the magic boarding passes to paradise...or, more accurately, to the coach section of the aircraft, which is probably going to be hotter than the ninth level of Tartarus and is where we invariably will be seated next to either a screaming, ill behaved heathen brat who is torn between repeatedly and rhytmically kicking the seat in front of him or yelling full voice for mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, or next to an extremely large, mouth breathing, florid faced man, who is radiant in his fried chicken/mashed potatoes and gravy aroma and resplendent in the sweat stains down the sides of his shirt and chicken grease on his face and fingers and whose massive quantity of flesh insists on encroaching into our space.

Recently, I had the dubious pleasure of exercising my privilege to non rev ecstasy on my company's last flight to Raleigh. Wow. Even as I'm reading that it seems somehow movie-like. "Last Flight to Raleigh"...starring Liv Tyler and Johnny Depp. Anyhoo, I digress.

I like to watch people. Airports are perfect places in which to observe the human condition. Since I have the opportunity to travel by air more often than the average person, I have lots of time in which to people watch. On this particular excursion to Raleigh, I was seated at the gate in one of the marginally comfortable chairs, next to my beautiful, almost 16-year-old daughter while we awaited the announcement that our flight was actually going to depart, and that our happy butts would be planted in the empty, leftover seats in coach next to the rude child or the fat man. If you have never spent two hours of wait time with a bored 16-year-old whose iPod's battery is failing, it is what you could call a character building exercise.

While we were waiting, my mind began to wander and I noticed the older lady seated directly across the aisle from us. I noticed her because she was speaking, quite loudly, to someone on her cell phone. I noticed her because she kept saying she was at the Dallas airport and I felt compelled to continue eavesdropping to ensure that I was hearing her correctly. As a subject for a people watching aficianado, she was a true treasure.

She was 60-ish and dressed in a dashiki type top, colorful baggy bottoms, adorned with lime green, vinyl crocs on her feet, and graced with a lovely, shiny nose ring, which glittered in the florescent lighting like the proverbial jewel of the Nile. I continued to eavesdrop on this poor unfortunate's cell phone conversation because I felt that she was confused about her exact location on my home planet. You see, I know that when my butt touched down in the seat across the aisle from her that it was convinced that we were currently occupying space at the big Houston airport, and I was kept busy musing in an attempt to decide whether my daughter and I may have somehow inadvertently disrupted the space time continuum and had landed, big hair and large bottoms first, in Dallas. Thankfully, Ms. Aging Hipster finally realized her error and told her cell phone that she was, in fact, at the Houston airport, which finally put my mind at ease. I am quite certain that Hipster's cell phone was relieved at this news, too.

At that, it was time to board the aircraft, two hours late to Raleigh. I took my seat next to the fat man, took a 10 dollar bill out of my purse and at the first opportunity flagged down the harried flight attendant to request two of those delightful little bottles of wine. The cost of the two tiny bottles of wine would exactly equal the amount of money changing hands, thus elimating the need for the flight attendant to make change. And, I figured, two bottles of wine would just about smoothe out the rough edges enough for me to endure the the ninth level of Tarturus for the two and a half hour duration of the flight.

I then gave the fat man a wink, smiled my best East Texas, big haired, cheerleader smile, and said knowingly, "Hold on to your drumsticks, honey. It's gonna be a bumpy ride."

Just Leave Me Alone!

OK...my son, Jonathan, says I'm just mean. I say I'm just discerning about whom I converse with. I like to talk, a lot...really, I do. Sometimes they can't get me to shut up at work, but this is a situation in which I feel comfortable. Similarly, my husband and children are rarely able to get a word in edgewise when we're talking at home. I swear there are many times when I can see each one of them do the mental eyeroll when Mommy starts off on one of her rants.

However, in public, it's another story entirely. I often wonder when I'm riding on a bus or traveling on an airplane why other folks feel so overwhelmingly compelled to speak to me. I'm not talking about a simple, "Hey, can I sit here?" or "Hey, can you please get off my foot?" I'm talking about folks who insist on attempting to converse with me, especially when I'm trying to make it quite clear that I don't want to talk to them...not now nor at any time during their lifetime. You know the drill. You sit down on an airplane or a bus with a great book that you've just been dying to read, and some dweeb with an accent that sounds like he just got off the last goatwagon from East Hillbillyville sits down next to you and starts asking you inane stuff like what your favorite brand of pickle is or how to get foot stink out of sweatsocks. I mean, really, dude, they're called sweatsocks for a reason. Damn!

I've asked my son on a number of occasions just what makes these people think that they can talk to me. On those occasions, he doesn't even bother to do a mental eyeroll, he just rolls his eyes right in front of me. Hmmmph.

The funny thing is I'm not really a shy person. No one I know would call me a shy person...and I most definitely did not marry a shy person. I'm not really a "mean" person either...at least not down deep...where it counts. I'm sometimes loud and rude for effect and my boss once characterized me as a big dog who barks a lot but has no bite whatsoever. There are just many times when I don't want to be bothered.

Even funnier is that I do admire those folks who have the gift of indiscriminate gab with anyone. They will never lack for friends or they will at least always have company. My father was one of those special people. Now I don't mean he was a person who rode the short bus, I mean that along with all of his other wonderful qualities, he had that special ability to chat with anyone about anything at any time. I don't think that there was anyone on this planet that my dad wouldn't have been able to find some small common ground with. He appeared to me and...true, maybe it was appearances only...but he appeared to me to be as comfortable with princes as he was with paupers.

What's really hilarious is that whereas I really only want to talk to extremely good looking, interesting, intelligent men from exotic locations when I'm traveling, I married one of those special guys like my dad...one of those people who has the "gift" and make it their mission in life to share that "gift" with EVERYONE. Jeff, the man I married, the love of my life, teaches high school chemistry and physics. I know...I know...YAWN, right? The thing is, though, he has a huge range of topics that he is equally comfortable in discussing. You are as likely to interrupt him during a conversation about the melting temperture of NaCl as you are to find him discussing theatrical makeup techniques or the mating habits of the Galapagos tortoise.

Likewise, this man, the man whom I adore, has never in his life met a stranger. You know that passenger on the last goatwagon out of East Hicksville? Jeff could spend hours talking to him. He could spend just as much time talking to that hick about pickle brands as he would talking to Steve Jobs about new computer applications for the Mac or to Rupert Murdoch about his latest media acquisition. If I happen to lose him in the grocery store or at the mall, I'm pretty sure that I'm likely to find him chatting up the most unfortunately unattractive salesperson in the building about how swell the soup can display looks. It's not just that he approaches people to start a conversation, it's that he has that approachable quality that makes other people seek him out, requiring him to validate their opinons and insights with his conversational input.

Maybe my annoyance in these talkers lies in the fact that when those same folks approach me to try to converse, they say incredibly STUPID things like, "When is your baby due?" Even though, my youngest "baby" was born almost 18 years ago.

Yeah, maybe that's why I'm so pissed off all of the time.