Today is the best day of the trip - Go-home day! I am looking forward to 9 consecutive days off (after busting my hump the past 4 weeks, only to fight Oly the mainline pilot for the jumpseat on the perpetually oversold flight home every FREAKING week). I plan to head to the Missouri State Fair tomorrow morning to watch Don's son's step-daughters show their pigs for the FFA. Or is it 4H? I'm not entirely certain, but they are so cute to watch (the pigs and the kids who show them). Besides, it's Cheat Day, and I've got a craving for a funnel cake!
Then, Sunday - after my long run to help erase the funnel cakes - I'll load up the Jeep and make the 8 hour trek to my Mom's place. I haven't seen her since the beginning of summer! We always have the best time, whether we're shopping, gossiping, or looking for goofy things on YouTube. I always pull away from her place with renewed confidence, a positive outlook, and a peaceful smile; and always wishing we had more time.
But first, I have to get home tonight. There is something quite melancholy about ending the trip with crewmembers who are lucky enough to jump in their cars and drive home after the parking brake is set and the passengers are kicked off, while you're stuck at the damned airport. This time, we pulled in to the gate just minutes before the 4:40pm flight to St. Louis was scheduled to push back. I quickly gathered my gear and dodged the passengers in the jetbridge. Nimble athlete that I've become, I sprinted across the terminal in seemingly slow-motion, narrowly avoiding collisions with people in wheelchairs and ready to jump over children in strollers. All the while dragging that boat anchor I call a suitcase across the carpeted floor as the jukebox in my mind played "Chariots of Fire." I reached my departure gate and managed to gasp through heavy breaths and sweat - "JUMPSEAT. St. Louis. Please!"
The unimpressed gate agent stated that it was a full flight with a jumpseater already there. They were weight restricted due to the weather, but luckily they were able to work it out. Oly the Mainline guy strikes again! I watched the plane push back from the gate with my sad, tired face pressed against the window pane and a single, desperate tear trickled down my cheek.
Okay, that part was a lie, but it was still sad to watch the flight pull away without me on it. Ah well, at least there is another flight home - 4 hours later. If all goes well, I should make it home by midnight.
At least I managed to do something constructive with my 4 hour layover. I farmed my Farville farm. I checked on all my facebook friends. I participated in a company bitch session in the crew room. I worked on my bid for September (trying to keep in mind that Oly the Mainline Guy commutes to work on Monday and back home again on Friday). And of course, I jotted down my thoughts in this blog - which was supposed to be a reflection on acts of kindness instead of the mundane day-to-day struggles of the Commuter (I guess the one on kindness will have to be posted later).
I have become a genius in the science of wasting time.
And now it appears that I've wasted enough of it. I have just one hour to departure. Plenty of time to walk at a normal pace to the gate and still have time to sacrifice a virgin to the Commuting gods so that I can make it home tonight. I hope everyone has a fantastic weekend!
Friday, August 12, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
"Squeaky?"
I'd like to offer a warm welcome into the world of my blog. I've been encouraged to blog in the past, but never have. Mostly because I don't really feel that I have anything important to say. However, since there is great therapy in telling others about your troubles and frustrations, not to mention the romanticism in the fantasy that somewhere, someone I may or may not have ever met is reading my words and smiling, I'll give this blogging thing a shot.
My ex-boyfriend used to call the act of writing down everything you're feeling, whether good, bad, or just plain pensive, "taking a mental shit." My mother calls the same act "Mental masturbation." I suppose the cleansing sense of peace and personal purification one feels upon completion of either task is the same, so both must be accurate descriptions!
Let me start by first explaining the nickname "Squeaky" or "Squeaks" for short. Ever since I popped out of the womb, I've had this funny little hiccup. Not the perpetual irritating "hic" that you get when you've had too much to drink or stand up too quickly. Rather, just one every 10 minutes or so. Sometimes, it comes out in a cute, barely audible "heeeeeeek". Sometimes, it comes out as an earth-shattering, resounding "HEEEEEEEK!" Both are excellent for adding levity or comic relief to the most tense situations. Upon first encounter of this funny hiccup (or Squeak), people often turn to me, frown, and offer a confused, "Bless you?" Or, they'll simply ask, "What the hell was that?" This morning, on the van ride from our Providence hotel to the airport, the van driver suddenly braked after my "Squeak" because he thought he'd blown a tire. Seriously.
I never really paid much attention to it until I came to work for the regional airlines. Spending a lot of time with people in close quarters with nothing to talk about drew attention to it. I've been encouraged to get it checked out by a doctor, but I'm afraid it will reveal a dangerous condition that may disqualify me from getting a medical in the future. Remaining ignorant seems like a better option. After all, there are two of us up there, right? Anyhow, it earned me my affectionate nickname, which is better than my previous nickname - "Biscuit" - that I earned at my job flying for the Arkansas Forestry Commission.
For those of you who are curious, "Biscuit" was bestowed upon me when I thought it was a good idea to throw a sopping wet McDonald's biscuit out the window of a Cessna 182 while in flight on a very hot Summer's day in Arkansas at a low altitude. For those of you who don't know the airflow patterns in and around a Cessna 182, such an act is impossible. It will instead result in said biscuit "glopping" into a thousand tiny little specs plastering themselves all around the cabin and into the back storage compartment. After a few hours in the summer sun, the smell and hour-long sticky, stinky cleanup with the shop vac turned me off of McDonald's biscuits for a long time. Picture a mess on par with the Manson Family murdering the Pillsbury Doughboy.
I will try to keep this blog PG-13, but will occasionally slip into R territory as required. Thank you for reading and I hope I can make you smile.
My ex-boyfriend used to call the act of writing down everything you're feeling, whether good, bad, or just plain pensive, "taking a mental shit." My mother calls the same act "Mental masturbation." I suppose the cleansing sense of peace and personal purification one feels upon completion of either task is the same, so both must be accurate descriptions!
Let me start by first explaining the nickname "Squeaky" or "Squeaks" for short. Ever since I popped out of the womb, I've had this funny little hiccup. Not the perpetual irritating "hic" that you get when you've had too much to drink or stand up too quickly. Rather, just one every 10 minutes or so. Sometimes, it comes out in a cute, barely audible "heeeeeeek". Sometimes, it comes out as an earth-shattering, resounding "HEEEEEEEK!" Both are excellent for adding levity or comic relief to the most tense situations. Upon first encounter of this funny hiccup (or Squeak), people often turn to me, frown, and offer a confused, "Bless you?" Or, they'll simply ask, "What the hell was that?" This morning, on the van ride from our Providence hotel to the airport, the van driver suddenly braked after my "Squeak" because he thought he'd blown a tire. Seriously.
I never really paid much attention to it until I came to work for the regional airlines. Spending a lot of time with people in close quarters with nothing to talk about drew attention to it. I've been encouraged to get it checked out by a doctor, but I'm afraid it will reveal a dangerous condition that may disqualify me from getting a medical in the future. Remaining ignorant seems like a better option. After all, there are two of us up there, right? Anyhow, it earned me my affectionate nickname, which is better than my previous nickname - "Biscuit" - that I earned at my job flying for the Arkansas Forestry Commission.
For those of you who are curious, "Biscuit" was bestowed upon me when I thought it was a good idea to throw a sopping wet McDonald's biscuit out the window of a Cessna 182 while in flight on a very hot Summer's day in Arkansas at a low altitude. For those of you who don't know the airflow patterns in and around a Cessna 182, such an act is impossible. It will instead result in said biscuit "glopping" into a thousand tiny little specs plastering themselves all around the cabin and into the back storage compartment. After a few hours in the summer sun, the smell and hour-long sticky, stinky cleanup with the shop vac turned me off of McDonald's biscuits for a long time. Picture a mess on par with the Manson Family murdering the Pillsbury Doughboy.
I will try to keep this blog PG-13, but will occasionally slip into R territory as required. Thank you for reading and I hope I can make you smile.
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