No Need for Purgatory, I Did My Time on Reserve

Picture it.

You've just gotten back from a hectic day of filling the wedding-registry with your favorite bride-to-be....and her mother. You feel much like one of those tin cans festively tied to the newlyweds getaway vehicle, a little beaten up by the whole experience, but hanging on and glad to be part of the party.

You log onto the computer to see what the week has in store for you. After all, you want to work, you need to work, after the worthless New Orleans debacle of last week.

Your eyes scan the page....

A four-day trip. Good, lots of per-diem.
No exciting layovers, but no early mornings, so that's OK.

All in all, looks humane, and with all these flights listed, it must be worth some hours, let's scroll down and see...........

Then it hits you.
The three little letters that strike terror into the heart of any hardworking reserve flight attendant: DCO (deadhead).

This seemingly harmless denotation changes you from a productive customer-service professional into a piece of cargo, and this trip had it listed for each day.
Apparently this was supposed to be staffed by a Houston reserve, but since they are short there, three of us Jersey girls were being shipped out. The result is a four-day trip worth 12 hours (usually a four-day would earn 20-25hrs).
There went any hope of balancing the books this month.

What is there to do but paint your nails and pout while offering your entirely superfluous opinion on the possible 700+ fonts available* for the wedding invitations? So that's what I did.

Sunday morning at 11:05 am I checked in and went to print out my boarding pass for the deadhead to Houston, but the crew-communication-system asked me to acknowledge a change to my schedule.

What could this be? Am a I reading this correctly?
My deadhead is changed from from 11:40 am to 1:40pm!!
You mean I could still be in bed?

They didn't even bother to call.

If it weren't happening to the other reserves with me, I might think scheduling was trying to punish me for my UTC (unable to contact) in December.

The only positive is the shocked and empathetic looks offered by working crew members when I show them my trip. Like a slasher-film that's so gory it's funny.

The truly amusing part is how just last Friday I went to a wonderful prayer meeting lead by the brothers of the Community of St. John.

There we discussed how "the moment I realize I deserve nothing; that is the moment that I realize everything is a gift" and that "every moment is a unique moment to receive God, that there is never a moment I am not dependant on Him" and that a "feeling of entitlement" keeps me from experiencing God's love.

I left adoration with a journal entry full of joyful exclamations and musings on how grateful I was to have all that I do, a good job, a safe place to come home to, and how I didn't really deserve anything and it was all a gift and I pledged to be humble and thankful for everything, etc.

Just two hours of missed sleep and I faniced myself a martyr.

God was surely rolling His omnipotent eyes at me.

The next day, my spirits were considerably lifted by a good night's sleep in a Sheraton bed and a little in-room Starbucks coffee. It doesn't take complex spiritual excercises to be grateful for that.

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*This is not an exaggeration, but the actual number of options proudly posted on the website of this particular printer, as if setting your customers off on a manic click-and-preview spree like a crazed slots player waiting to score the jackpot were a good thing.

Just use leaches. They require less jet fuel.

I'm being exploited.

I'm being used up.

I sit plunking out this entry from an ancient hotel computer in New Orleans, anticipating a 4:10 am wake up call followed by another day of unproductive shuttling between airports, when I should be addressing bridal shower invitations and dress shopping.

I wouldn't even mind working, if I was getting paid for it.

But instead, I was dead-headed to Houston where I sat for two and a half hours so I could work a 47 minute flight to New Orleans, get minimum crew rest and then do the whole thing in reverse ridiculously early tomorrow morning.

Grand total for this 24 hour ordeal? Two hours and twenty eight minutes of paid flight time.

The final insult? Three and a half hours on a full 737, in uniform, in a middle seat.