"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."

Who left only one ice cube in the ice tray??

Note: I originally wrote this piece when we owned a refrigerator whose water dispenser was broken. I am happy to say that we now have a new refrigerator with a perfectly working water/ice dispenser so that this particular scenario NEVER HAS TO HAPPEN AGAIN! But, the piece is amusing, nonetheless. :-)



Ever had one of those days when your family seemed to be bound and determined to irritate the ever loving fool out of you?

According to my family, I have these days all the time...or, maybe it's I'm irritated all the time. I'm not sure because I pretty much tune out much of what is said in regards to my moods...mainly because most of it's gross exaggeration. Either way, if you know that I'm irritable or that I'm easily irritated, why, oh why, do you insist on doing things that you know will irritate me?

As an illustration, I got a water pitcher with a filter in it so that, being the health conscious, incredibly wise and caring wife and mommy that I am, my family members could have fresh, filtered, refrigerated drinking water anytime their little hearts desired. The pitcher consists of an large plastic pitcher with a reservoir on the bottom for the filtered water, a reservoir on the top into which you run straight tap water, and a lid on top. It doesn't take a degree in rocket science to figure out how to operate this pitcher. It's quite straightforward, any retarded monkey could make it work...evidently so long as that monkey isn't a 46 year old, degreed professional educator, that is.

The scenario proceeded thusly. I walked into the kitchen, observing the unswept floors and the dirty dishes in the sink with a growing sense of impending doom and despair, realizing that, yet again, I would be on dish duty and floor patrol. I watched, with love in my heart and a song in my soul, my sweet husband, Jeff, pull the filter pitcher out of the refrigerator and pour himself a glass of the nice, pristine, cold water. I observed that there is now about a half inch of clean water remaining in the bottom of the filtered part of the pitcher. I waited to see if Jeff would refill it, but to my horror, he went to replace the pitcher in the refrigerator...without refilling! Now, as sins go, this is probably quite minor, ranking right up there with not flushing the toilet or something, but as I have had to be the one to refill the pitcher the last 28 times it has needed refilling, I took offense to this oversight on his part and proceeded to question his motives.

Me: "What are you doing?"

Jeff: "Getting a drink of water," said with just the slightest hint of sarcastic challenge...like duh? are you stupid, or what?

"Uh, I can see that. Are you planning on refilling the pitcher?" I asked oh so sweetly.

"No, I don't know how," Jeff replied with a barely defensive tone.

"Well, here. Let me show you how!" I now challenged authoritatively.

"No...I really don't want to learn, thanks," he shot back defiantly.

"Look, you twit, it isn't brain surgery. Take the lid off, place the pitcher under the running tap water, fill the reservoir to the desired level, turn the water off, place the pitcher back into the refrigerator, close the refrigerator door," I instructed...with an ever so slight edge to my voice.

"Why are you always so irritated?"

"You want to know why I'm always so irritated?" my voice climbing higher, "maybe it's because the last 328 times that the damn thing needed to be filled, I had to fill it. Maybe it's because," and here I dramatically threw the freezer door open, a Lean Cuisine and eight or nine batteries spilled out onto the floor, "there are two ice trays in here that someone left with only a single ice cube in each of them. Why do I ALWAYS have to do EVERYTHING around here?"

"Yeah, but I still don't understand why you're always so irritated. Besides, you don't always have to do everything around here. I put the dishes in the dishwasher." (Did I mention that, yes, that was two weeks ago?)

Or...something like that. I had to go pour myself a glass of wine and lie down to stave off an impending apoplexy.