It's Go-Home Day! Unfortunately, as we were on the approach to runway 6L, I witnessed the flight I wanted to catch - Waterski 3312 - take runway 6R for departure. My next attempt is the 8:45 pm flight, which leaves me with several hours to kill. I thought briefly about using this time wisely by calling the Crowne Plaza to come pick me up and getting a room so I could go for a run and take a shower lest I have to sit in the jumpseat. However, as I walked by Dunkin' Donuts I noticed there wasn't a line - and the coffee was calling my name! I figured I'd save the $$ for the crappy schedule I'm sure to get in October.
Seriously, it's like the people of Crew Planning get together every month for a delicious dinner, probably catered by some big name and then billed to the Company. I picture a ritual in which they hold hands, pray, recite the Company's Mission Statements with their hearts in their throats and a eyes welling up with tears of pride. They break the bread and share the wine. After the feast, they pick their teeth, put on our dreadful boarding music, pass around the bong, and try to one-up each other on how to make each base more miserable than they were the last month. Especially the bases that are composed of crewmembers who have been displaced from a base where they were really happy. They'll sit in a circle and let the creative juices flow. Someone takes a hit, "ffffffft........ cough cough.... all right.... How 'bout this?" EXHALE....... "Let's give them a 0225 show on a Sunday (because everyone knows it's next to impossible to commute on a Saturday), make them fly 7 legs, include a 4:55 minute sit somewhere that doesn't have a crew room, follow that with a reduced-rest overnight with one leg the next day, and top it off with a 36 hour overnight somewhere in a cow pasture so there's nothing to do, and THEN, we end the trip too late for them to catch a flight home!!"
This elicits a round of applause and clinking of shotglasses filled with top-shelf tequila as they continue their brainstorm of trip-pairing misery. After their work is done, they play Naked Twister and send the one no one can stand to go get twinkies from the convenience store. The first person to fall asleep awakens to find a video of himself on YouTube getting duct taped to the couch. His friends fart bare-assed in his face as he wets his pants because someone put his hand in a bowl of warm water. As dawn breaks the next day, they wipe their sleepy eyes, brew coffee as they shake off their buzz, exchange hugs, and watch the facebook news feed in breathless anticipation for the hilarious reactions of the pilots as they see what's in store for them.
I'm sorry, this month's bid is still fresh in my mind. Just when you think the trips can't get any worse, they do.
This will all be worth it one day. I really do believe that. One day, I won't be living paycheck to paycheck. One day, I'll be doing the long-haul stuff. One day, I will make this dream work. One day.
But for now, I find happiness in the opportunity to work with the best people in the world. I like that every traveler I encounter has a story. I find happiness in little things that no other job in the world would offer me.
I watched the sunrise this morning through ever-changing pastels, the night sky going from black to blue just before the first rays of sunlight break through the pink, purple, and orange clouds..... sipping my coffee and enjoying a completely smooth ride as even ATC is quiet..... that makes "paying your dues" not so bad.
Crew Planning..... bring it on. I choose to be happy.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
A time-wasting stroll down memory lane.
First Officer's Log; Day 2 of 4. Time 16:16 Eastern. Location, NYC.
To quote from one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes, the one in which the main character finds himself the lone survivor of a nuclear holocaust, leaving him with no responsibilities so he can finally pursue the magic of enriching his mind with all the glorious information that the world's books have to offer, "Ahh. Time enough at last!"
Yes, time enough at last to rot in my hotel room for 24 hours on this Labor Day. Flight schedules are reduced this weekend. In fact, this weekend marks not only the unofficial end of Summer, but also the official end of Summer Flying Schedules - much to the commuting pilot's dismay. As a result, even when our captain offered this morning to whore all of us out to Scheduling (give us work instead of heading to the hotel after only flying one leg today), they had everything covered for once. Sure, when I want to work, they don't need me. Instead they call me when I'm making lasagna, drinking wine, and dancing in the kitchen to Dean Martin's music on Cheat Day, thousands of miles away from my Cleveland base.
It's been this way since I started with this company. I started off like every other pilot out there - at the bottom of the seniority list, on reserve. What that means to my non-airline speaking followers is that I was on-call. A pilot or flight attendant on reserve at my company is given 90 minutes from the time Scheduling initially calls to be at the door of the airplane, ready to fly. Reserve schedules generally consist of 12 hour shifts, usually 4am - 4pm for pilots and 3am - 3pm for flight attendants. Since I had no residence in St. Louis (I had just moved out of the hangar I was living in provided by my previous employer and moved in with my boyfriend in Jefferson City - alas, beyond the 1:30 callout time), and driving 4 hours round-trip every night, just to be available was out of the question, I had to stay in hotels in the STL area. I was new, I was eager, I was so excited to finally make the big time - flying for an airline!! I called scheduling each day. You know - just to remind them that I was at their beck and call. Most of the time, however, they had no work for me. If anything, it was a round-trip somewhere, leaving me back in base to fend for myself. While I'm certainly not wealthy now, first-year FO pay is beyond dismal and it wasn't long before I ran out of money.
I tried calling the numbers advertised for "pilots only crash-pads" in the crew room, but was met with, "You're a pilot? Uhhh...... let me get your number. We're full now, we'll call you if there's an opening." Too proud to ask for help, and full of dreams and a spirit of adventure, I decided it was best to live in my Jeep. After all, I was on probation, and the surest way to lose my awesome new job was to show up late for work! I spent my days walking around parks and malls in my uniform pants, reading books and checking my phone every 5 minutes. Didn't want to miss a call!
I spent my nights in the parking lot of the on-airport bar at CPS (the East St. Louis airport where I flew freight). You may laugh, but I felt safe there! I knew the freight schedules and hangar door combination, so when I felt especially grungy and was sure everyone was asleep, I'd sneak in to take a quick shower and slip out before anyone was the wiser. I didn't want my peers at my former freight job to know my situation. They were excited for me that I had moved on to "bigger and better things!" I called scheduling and BEGGED for work. It was obvious they were tired of hearing from me when they less-than delicately told me, with all the warmth of a dead penguin frozen to an iceberg - that if they needed me, they'd call. Finally, after a few months of this, I got a line - meaning a real schedule so I could sleep in my own bed at night.
Looking back, this is sad in so many ways. The public would shit a golden egg roll and wipe with platinum chopsticks if they knew that the pilot flying them to Newark slept in her uniform for 3 consecutive nights, under a blanket in her jeep at the Bar's parking lot near East St. Louis, while being rewarded with pay that is less than that of the person who picked up their burger patty they ordered while waiting for their flight. It is with the memory of this experience that I almost take delight in telling them politely to piss up a rope when they call me and beg me to cover a flight.
Back to the here and now. While I am flying with a fun crew this trip, no one wants to go out and explore the city because it costs money. Instead, it was, "well, see you tomorrow morning at 8!" SLAM. CLICK. Which is probably a good thing, because I'm running a bit short on dough, too <again!>; in fact I'm counting the days until the "big paycheck" on the 15th. This is sad because we were paid only a few days ago. Also, with the new diet I'm on, I'd have to carry protein powder, almond butter, a portable scale to weigh my food, and an avocado with me wherever we go in the event that we're not back to the safety of the hotel within a few hours. If we find ourselves in the unfortunate situation of being mugged, I'd have to bargain with the mugger, "yes, you may have my purse, money, and credit cards, but please leave me with my food scale, protein powder, and enough money to purchase an avocado so I don't ruin my diet with street vendor food!"
So here I sit, jotting down memories of how I got here.
The old me would brave the walk to the gas station next door, purchase enough alcohol to get me through cut-off time, and YouTube Tom Waits and Eric Clapton songs while playing Bejeweled Blitz until my eyes got so blurry it was time to collapse into bed. Sleep with my foot on the floor in order to stop the room from spinning, with the trash can next to me - while I have no plans to use it, it's there just in case.
The new me misses the old me in times like this. However, the new me loves waking up without reaching for the "morning after" cocktail of advil and gatorade!
It's taken me almost 10 years to get on the right track after my little bargain with God, made as I was waiting in the emergency room to undergo emergency surgery after shattering my ankle and leg. Ah, but this is a story for another blog entry. Time to shake up that protein powder and ready the almond butter!
To quote from one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes, the one in which the main character finds himself the lone survivor of a nuclear holocaust, leaving him with no responsibilities so he can finally pursue the magic of enriching his mind with all the glorious information that the world's books have to offer, "Ahh. Time enough at last!"
Yes, time enough at last to rot in my hotel room for 24 hours on this Labor Day. Flight schedules are reduced this weekend. In fact, this weekend marks not only the unofficial end of Summer, but also the official end of Summer Flying Schedules - much to the commuting pilot's dismay. As a result, even when our captain offered this morning to whore all of us out to Scheduling (give us work instead of heading to the hotel after only flying one leg today), they had everything covered for once. Sure, when I want to work, they don't need me. Instead they call me when I'm making lasagna, drinking wine, and dancing in the kitchen to Dean Martin's music on Cheat Day, thousands of miles away from my Cleveland base.
It's been this way since I started with this company. I started off like every other pilot out there - at the bottom of the seniority list, on reserve. What that means to my non-airline speaking followers is that I was on-call. A pilot or flight attendant on reserve at my company is given 90 minutes from the time Scheduling initially calls to be at the door of the airplane, ready to fly. Reserve schedules generally consist of 12 hour shifts, usually 4am - 4pm for pilots and 3am - 3pm for flight attendants. Since I had no residence in St. Louis (I had just moved out of the hangar I was living in provided by my previous employer and moved in with my boyfriend in Jefferson City - alas, beyond the 1:30 callout time), and driving 4 hours round-trip every night, just to be available was out of the question, I had to stay in hotels in the STL area. I was new, I was eager, I was so excited to finally make the big time - flying for an airline!! I called scheduling each day. You know - just to remind them that I was at their beck and call. Most of the time, however, they had no work for me. If anything, it was a round-trip somewhere, leaving me back in base to fend for myself. While I'm certainly not wealthy now, first-year FO pay is beyond dismal and it wasn't long before I ran out of money.
I tried calling the numbers advertised for "pilots only crash-pads" in the crew room, but was met with, "You're a pilot? Uhhh...... let me get your number. We're full now, we'll call you if there's an opening." Too proud to ask for help, and full of dreams and a spirit of adventure, I decided it was best to live in my Jeep. After all, I was on probation, and the surest way to lose my awesome new job was to show up late for work! I spent my days walking around parks and malls in my uniform pants, reading books and checking my phone every 5 minutes. Didn't want to miss a call!
I spent my nights in the parking lot of the on-airport bar at CPS (the East St. Louis airport where I flew freight). You may laugh, but I felt safe there! I knew the freight schedules and hangar door combination, so when I felt especially grungy and was sure everyone was asleep, I'd sneak in to take a quick shower and slip out before anyone was the wiser. I didn't want my peers at my former freight job to know my situation. They were excited for me that I had moved on to "bigger and better things!" I called scheduling and BEGGED for work. It was obvious they were tired of hearing from me when they less-than delicately told me, with all the warmth of a dead penguin frozen to an iceberg - that if they needed me, they'd call. Finally, after a few months of this, I got a line - meaning a real schedule so I could sleep in my own bed at night.
Looking back, this is sad in so many ways. The public would shit a golden egg roll and wipe with platinum chopsticks if they knew that the pilot flying them to Newark slept in her uniform for 3 consecutive nights, under a blanket in her jeep at the Bar's parking lot near East St. Louis, while being rewarded with pay that is less than that of the person who picked up their burger patty they ordered while waiting for their flight. It is with the memory of this experience that I almost take delight in telling them politely to piss up a rope when they call me and beg me to cover a flight.
Back to the here and now. While I am flying with a fun crew this trip, no one wants to go out and explore the city because it costs money. Instead, it was, "well, see you tomorrow morning at 8!" SLAM. CLICK. Which is probably a good thing, because I'm running a bit short on dough, too <again!>; in fact I'm counting the days until the "big paycheck" on the 15th. This is sad because we were paid only a few days ago. Also, with the new diet I'm on, I'd have to carry protein powder, almond butter, a portable scale to weigh my food, and an avocado with me wherever we go in the event that we're not back to the safety of the hotel within a few hours. If we find ourselves in the unfortunate situation of being mugged, I'd have to bargain with the mugger, "yes, you may have my purse, money, and credit cards, but please leave me with my food scale, protein powder, and enough money to purchase an avocado so I don't ruin my diet with street vendor food!"
So here I sit, jotting down memories of how I got here.
The old me would brave the walk to the gas station next door, purchase enough alcohol to get me through cut-off time, and YouTube Tom Waits and Eric Clapton songs while playing Bejeweled Blitz until my eyes got so blurry it was time to collapse into bed. Sleep with my foot on the floor in order to stop the room from spinning, with the trash can next to me - while I have no plans to use it, it's there just in case.
The new me misses the old me in times like this. However, the new me loves waking up without reaching for the "morning after" cocktail of advil and gatorade!
It's taken me almost 10 years to get on the right track after my little bargain with God, made as I was waiting in the emergency room to undergo emergency surgery after shattering my ankle and leg. Ah, but this is a story for another blog entry. Time to shake up that protein powder and ready the almond butter!
Friday, August 12, 2011
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!
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!
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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