"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.