BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I actually enjoy flying.

Well, allow me to qualify that – I used to enjoy flying.  Unfortunately, not so much anymore.  I’ve talked about this in the past, and the reason I gave for air travel falling from favor was more centered upon the BS one must deal with on the ground – such as the “hurry up and wait” factor as well as the TSA just to name two. Don’t get me wrong here… I’ve met many wonderful TSA folk. People who are doing a job and try to make it run smooth and easy because they understand how trying the whole process can be. But, there are also those – and it seems, unfortunately, that they make up the majority – who are on a power trip and take great delight in being assholes.

Well, I’m not here to talk to you about the TSA today. I’m actually here to talk to you about Airborne Waitresses. I’m sure that euphemism will get me in trouble, but what the hell. Apparently I am born to be in trouble.

My story begins on Friday last. I was bound for Texas to present at the Ostara Festival and sign books at Sisters of the Earth and Sea. Like the rest of us, bookstores have been hit by the downturn in the economy, therefore they do what they can to cut costs. In this instance, they booked me on the redeye. No biggie. I can sleep when I’m dead.

So, anyway, I was up at 3AM and then E K & the O-spring dropped me off at the airport around 4:20. After standing in line, checking my bag, standing in line again, farting about with TSA, having my CPAP inspected, swabbed, detected, tested, and otherwise scrutinized, I was on my way to my gate. Eventually, after I spent time sitting around with other half-snoozing folks the airline announced that the flight was oversold and that they needed to bump at least three people. Normally I jump on this since they get you there anyway AND give you a voucher. This time, however, I sat still. But, as the minutes ticked by they became more and more adamant that they had to bump some people. And so, finally, I gave in and tested the waters. Once I was certain they could get me to my destination at a reasonable hour – especially since I had a connection to make – I told them I would fall on my sword for them.

So, I stood off to the side and set the wheels into motion that would notify those who needed to know that I would in fact be arriving later than scheduled. Then, a completely different ball started rolling, and as it continued downhill it picked up both speed and a healthy dose of ka-ka. Why? Because it needed to fling poo on me when it reached the bottom.

The American Airlines gate agent called my name and told me that they didn’t need to bump me after all. I had stood there watching them put standby passengers on the plane (or so it appeared) – something I thought odd to begin with, given that they had bumped three confirmed passengers, but whatever. Who was I to complain? I was going to be receiving a $300 voucher. Or, so I thought. Now, instead of the voucher I was being put back on the flight.

Having watched the prior mess, when the agent handed me my original boarding pass I asked, “Am I still sitting in the same seat?”

“You should be,” he told me.

The phrase “should be” obviously should have told me something. But, in my defense, it was early and I took his words at face value.

I boarded the plane and made my way back down the length of the MD-80 to my assigned seat – 31D. Of course, it was occupied. I spoke to the lady, then asked the Flight Attendant standing there where she would prefer that I sit since the seating had been messed up due to the shifting of passengers.

This particular Airborne Waitress was something on the order of 137 years old, and had a permanent scowl stapled to her face. Seriously. She already had 10 years in on the job when the Flight Attendant in the picture on the right was hired.

At any rate, she immediately yelled, “What?”

Yes, you read that correctly. Yelled. Not said, asked, uttered, muttered, or otherwise spoke. She yelled.

I answered, “31D.”

“What’s your seat number?” she yelled again.

“31D,” I said, again, slightly louder.

“31E?” she bellowed.

“No ma’am, 31D.”

“D? D as in dog? 31D?” she yelled.

“Yes ma’am,” I replied, notching my volume up a bit more, although nowhere near yelling as she was. “That’s what I said. 31D.”

Instantly she pulled off her face, and let me tell you the flaming death’s head was no prettier than the scowling prune. Suddenly she yelled even louder, “Don’t you take that attitude with me!”

I was taken aback. I’ve logged so many miles in the air that my flying odometer has rolled over more times than I can count, and never have I dealt with such a thing. I’ve had flight attendants flirt with me – one of whom was even dead set on having my company for the evening when we landed (she didn’t get her wish, much to her disappointment. Good thing too, as E K would have killed her, then tortured me for several weeks until I expired.) I’ve had them ask me to help during a period of heavy turbulence when passengers in my row were wigging out. I’ve even sat and traded recipes with them.

But, never had I been attacked by one.

Until now.

I looked at her and said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to give you any attitude. I just want to know where you want me to sit.”

She glared at me, then rolled her eyes and muttered something unintelligible, then proceeded to yank some poor woman’s ticket out of her hand.  A moment later she started screaming at her instead of me. The next thing I knew she was demanding that the woman move across the aisle and let me sit where she was sitting. I looked at the woman and said, why don’t you just stay where you are and I’ll sit over here. I immediately plopped into the seat and buckled up. Psycho Stewardess glared at me, but left it at that.

For the moment.

By “for the moment”, I mean a few minutes later she repeated the incident in extreme detail for some other passengers who were put back on after having been bumped. Up to and including a stern lecture about how all because of them the flight was going to arrive at DFW later than scheduled.

When she went forward, we all looked at one another, and chatted quietly, using various four letter words to describe the insane wingnut in a uniform. The general consensus was that she needed a Valium, or  more preferably cyanide. My point being, this wasn’t just me – all of us in the back of the airplane thought the woman had lost her mind and was undoubtedly the rudest flight attendant on record.

And, just to prove us correct she had to get in one last psycho moment, by screaming at a teenager to lift his tray table when we were on approach to DFW. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong kid to jump on. Seems he was a special needs individual and couldn’t really comprehend what it was that she was yelling at him about… And he was sitting in the window seat. Momma was in the aisle seat between them and she instantly intervened.

Of course, the flying bitch still had to have the last word. She yelled at the momma that she, “should have told her at the outset that he was special needs.”

For the record, instead of being late we landed 30 minutes early and had to wait on the tarmac for 15 minutes for a gate to be free.

I actually have a theory about that. I suspect the Captain pushed that airplane as hard as it would go because the rest of the crew probably called him up and said that if we didn’t get there soon they were going to chuck the Misanthropic Airborne Waitress out the hatch at 34 thousand feet.

You know what? They would have had plenty of help.

More to come…

Murv

I raced up the stairs, trying my damnedest not to kill myself in the process. You see, our house is old. VERY old. What’s more, the basement stairs were apparently cut and assembled by a rag-tag group of chimpanzees that were somewhere in the middle of a 30 day beer binge – I know this because I found a few of the “church key” topped cans in the wall when we remodeled and tore out the plaster and lath. The other reason I know this is because one stair might have a 7 1/2 inch rise with a 10 inch tread, but the next will have a 10 inch rise with a 7 inch tread. Of course, the one that follows usually has a 4 inch rise and a 12 inch tread, but I think you get the idea. The thing of it is, there’s no discernible pattern, even where muscle memory is concerned. Therefore, much killing of oneself occurs on these stairs, especially when you are in a hurry.

I know, I should probably just rip them out and replace them, like I did with their fraternal twins that led upstairs to the half story. But, that’s beside the point. This blog is actually about Dorothy Morrison and telephones.

Dorothy and cell phones, to be exact…

You see, Dorothy Morrison is a friend of mine. In fact, she is one of my best friends in the whole world. For those of you who might not know just who Dorothy is click on her name and follow the link. It will take you to her website. She’s a fantastic author and we often tour together. We are so much like brother and sister that we had to have been siblings in a previous life. It’s that simple.

So, anyway, there I was, trying hard not to kill myself as I bounded up the stairs from the basement. It was Christmas Day. Just this past Christmas Day 2009, as a matter of fact. Presents had been opened, breakfast had been consumed, showers had been had, and I had finished all of the cooking and meal prep work. We were gathering things together so we could load up and head out to visit with E Kay’s family. I was down in the basement – also known as E Kay’s Dungeon and Playroom – so that I could snag a box or two in order to make the packing up a bit easier. I had already had to skirt my way around the rack, the Iron Maiden, and all of E Kay’s other “toys” without injuring myself, and so far I had been doing fine.

Then I heard it. My cell phone, which was upstairs on the dining room table, began to belt out a jazzy show tune sort of ring. Only one person in my phone book was assigned this particular melange of electronic chirps – Dorothy.

Now, one would imagine that it would be just as easy to safely negotiate the stairs and return the call if missed. But, I knew better. I knew that Dorothy and her husband were on vacation, therefore in all likelihood she was calling me from her cell phone.

“Okay… So what?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you. Better yet, allow me to illustrate by finishing the story.

… The boxes I had been carrying flew out of my hands, as they were all but forgotten. I stumbled up the stairs at a frantic pace, losing a shoe and banging my shin on the 12 inch riser because I had miscalculated after taking the two 4 inch risers at once. The cats scattered in front of me – after all, wouldn’t you too if a fat guy was falling up the stairs at you?

My head bounced off the door frame as I fell through the opening, then rolled across the floor, came up into a dead run… Well, a limping dead run… E K was yelling from our bedroom upstairs, wanting to know why she was hearing a show tune, the offspring was surveying her bounty yet again, and the clock was ticking. I rounded the corner from the hallway and dove for the dining room table, snagging my phone as I crashed through the chairs and ended in a crumpled heap against the wall.

“Hello? Hello?” I said, speaking into the now unfolded cell between labored breaths. But alas, no one was there. Though I knew it was a longshot – and I do mean longshot – I pressed the button to return the missed call, which the tiny LCD screen was telling me had, in fact, come from Dorothy. Moreover, it told me it had come from Dorothy’s cell.

The tiny speaker on my LG warbled twice then clicked. The click, as I had fully expected, was followed by a voice mail prompt.

You see, here’s the thing… Dorothy suffers from CPFCS (Cell Phone Flash Calling Syndrome). She calls you, leaves a message, then before the last syllable has even finished echoing, she switches off her cell phone. Yes, just like a criminal on the run who fears being tracked by a cell phone signal, she shuts the thing down. I’m not absolutely certain, but I think she might even take the battery out of the damn thing.

I have attempted interventions in the past, gathering together friends and other authors who know Dorothy, but we have never had any success. No matter how hard we try, she still calls, leaves a message, then turns off her phone so that you can’t reach her. We even tried to bring her husband in on the intervention once, but Mark has been living under the same roof with her for so long that he has become jaded to this behavior.

When we told him what we were planning and why, he simply responded, “You’ll have that.”

Unable to reach Dorothy, I listened to the voice mail. As I suspected it would be, she was calling to wish us a Merry Christmas. Of course, I couldn’t return the greeting because she had turned off her phone. For that very same reason I also couldn’t call her horrible and terrible names for relaxing in Key West while I was preparing to load a vehicle in snow and sub-freezing temperatures.

Still, even though she couldn’t hear me, I called her names anyway. All in good fun, of course.

I mean, we’re talking about Dorothy Morrison here…

You’ll have that.

More to come…

Murv