It's called "Business First" Because You Don't Need Any Class

One can of Bloody Mary Mix, unopened, a cup of ice and three pieces of lime.

One coffee, skim milk and six sugars.

Sprite Zero with a splash of orange juice, no ice.

On Monday I was lead on a full flight back from Cancun, trying to fill the more creative drink orders while maintaining an imagine of the sunrise from my balcony. After all, ten short hours in Cancun is better than ten short hours in Tulsa.

As a girl who enjoys a Venti half-caff coffee with a dollop of soy milk foam on top, I'm pretty tolerant of special orders. And I appreciate when people just tell me what they want ins instead of ordering coffee and expecting me to instinctively know if they would like cream or sugar.

But back to me on the bar cart.

A tap on the shoulder made me turn around and hear the first class flight attenant explain that the "gentleman" in 1E would like to speak to her "supervisor" because he can't open the milk for his cereal.

Milk from Latin America is always the shelf-stable, ultra-pasteurized stuff packaged like the little juice boxes kids pack in their lunchbags. She had explained to him that you simply poke the little bendy straw through the little foil covered hole, but apparently this engineering challenge was much too complex and required immediate attention from a qualified crew member.

I dutifully responded and graciously demonstrated the proper technique.

Alas, 1E was still confounded by the situation and urgently gestured at his dry conflakes.

"But how do I get it on my cereal?"

No help from his wife, who incidently was munching an a moist spoonful and avoiding eye contact.

So, in a rather loud and throughly innocent voice I asked, "You want me to pour your milk on your cereal for you, sir?"

Ten pairs of "business-first" eyes pivoted up to see who exactly need breakfast assistance (Mrs. 1E still gazed out the window). With an audible pout he proceeded to messily quirt milk into his bowl and I returned to fetch my limes and count out sugars.

"BusinessFirst" is the official name for the cabin formerly known as first-class. Turns out that many companies will only pay for their employees to fly "business-class", not "first", so brilliant airline marketers simply renamed the product. Problem solved.

Well, that problem anyway. I guess they couldn't do anything about opening milk or the ridiculously loud (though I believe good intentioned) couple on the way down to to Cancun the day before. I, along with the entire BusinessFirst cabin heard every detail of their romance, their intentions never to marry and the lyrics to every song that popped into their tone-deaf heads during the 3 and half hour flight. It was almost cute, though completely inappropriate when he began massaging her feet. However, when he put her toes in his mouth that was my cue to head to the main cabin.

The really silly part is that if these characters didn't pay so much for their reclining seat, the rest of us couldn't afford the cheaper fares that allow us to get from point A to B. So I'm never upset. And remember, the most annoying passengers are probably just calcium deprived because they don't always have a flight attendant to open their milk.

11 Mintues?? That Would Be the Real Suprise.

As of right now, my flight from DCA back to EWR is only delayed 11 minutes.

There's no one around to start a pool, but I'd wager that will increase, the only question is by how much.

I'm here in Annapolis, and before I shut down my dad's computer I thought I'd sneak in a little blog entry.



They didn't use me the day after airport alert, so I was able to sneak home on a 5pm flight Tuesday. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous and I love all the dogwood and lilacs in bloom.

Last Sunday was my little sister's 22nd birthday, and I haven't seen her in a few weeks so I was hoping to help her celebrate a little this weekend.

My mother, in an unforeseen fit of coolness, booked a hotel room for Saturday so that Laura and her friends from college could come to Annapolis get gleamed up together, hit downtown, then crash at the suite for the night.

As Annie suggested, the hotel party birthday is definitely only celebrated by the youngest sibling.

But I harbor no resentment, and I was even planning to personal drop for Saturday so that I could help set up munchies and decorate for the girls.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't know if I actually got the day off on Saturday (tomorrow) until 6pm Friday (today) meaning that I would have already had to have been at the airport by the time the good news came.

I thought about just risking it and calling out sick if I didn't get the day off, but I've got to save my sick days for when Brandon Flowers calls to say his wife left him because he converted to Catholicism and so it's a good time for us to run away.

Just to make the personal drop plan even more futile, the last flight out of DCA on Saturday is 5pm, so I still wouldn't have time to get festive.

So, instead I made a fabulous menu of munchies, including a decadent "Coconut Hummingbird Cake", complete with vases of lilac blossoms and decorated labels to make choosing among the deleciousness easier. In my absence, my mom has PROMISED to display everything as I described. I'm a little anxious about that, but I guess if Claire can trust her to do the flowers for her wedding, I can let her plate up my oatmeal cookies.

In theory, my sister still knows nothing of all this, but I'm not too concerned about ruining the suprise. As far as I know, she's only read my blog once...because I was at her apartment...reading it out loud to her.

But no resentment for me, remember.

A Complete Analysis of the Benefits and Disadvantages of the Spring Season

DISLIKES:

I cannot go grocery shopping on my way to the airport and leave frozen foods in my trunk for the duration of my trip.

LIKES:

Everything else.

(Even the turnpike is Pretty!)

A Return, A Rant and a Ride

We got back yesterday from Las Vegas without incident. The journey home tends to be more somber.


I'm used to people ignoring me during the safety demo, but when I look down the aisle and see ninety percent of the passengers passed out and drooling at 2pm on a Sunday, I know it's leaving Las Vegas.

Today I was assigned Airport Alert.

Also known as Airport Appreciation or Airport Arrest, it's when I get all dressed up with no where to go. Nowhere that is, except to sit for four hours in the crewroom just in case anyone calls out at the last minute, or an inbound crew misconnects.

The phone didn't ring once tonight, which was refreshingly different from when I had AA two weeks ago.

That night, only four days before the wedding, I was informed that duty was extended to six hours. In the distance I could hear already hear reserves arguing with scheduling.

Of course I didn't have to sit for 6 hours, because before long I was sent to London ( I fear I may have brought this on myself by casually joking with a scheduler that I had a snappy new passport cover).

When I tell this to non-flight attendants they always get that "wow, what a cool job you have" look. However, working to London is every reason I hate international rolled into one three-day extravganza that can cost more than it pays thanks to the weak dollar:
The sleep-deprived zombie state. Boredom for hours over the Atlantic. Petty seniority battles and inter-crew drama. Uncomforatable European beds and crappy coffee. Having to check bags and then wait in line at customs.

I'd been to London once last September, and I did get out and do the touristy thing (at least I think I did, the picutres evidenced this, though my mind was mush from exhaustion). This time however, we landed in a snowy mess that had sent Gatwick Airport into a total meltdown.

The trains stopped running and planes were grounded. I, who had just gotten back from San Diego the day before and not bothered to repack, had only a flimsy skirt and flipflops. Additionally, the Olympic torch was being relayed through the city and protesters were doing their best to extinguish the flame. The games may go on, but all this certainly snuffed any desire I had to venture into London.

As for the crew, to put it diplomatically, there was way too much "personality". While they were all fine individuals I'm sure, stuck in a slender metal tube for 7 hours and forced to work through the night, you can imagine that things might get unpleasant. Maybe if I have a quiet day sometime I'll relate one of those tales in all it's gorey detail, but I just don't have the time time now.

I thank God for Kim, the girl I shared a jumpseat with, because she quite posibley kept me sane on that trip.

Although it wasn't her first overseas trip, it was her first since getting her transfer to the base and she had a constant look of "what have I gotten myself into?"

She was a lot of fun to fly with. She taught me how to play gin and we laughed at how surreal it was to be to spend the day in the airport hotel crewroom playing blackjack for sugar packets with a 5 ft. Puerto Rican flight attendant who was was not gay and trying to prove it with stories of how wasted he used to get in college with his buddies.

So, I certainly can't complain about Airport Alert tonight.

I didn't have to go anywhere, and I got to watch "Dancing with the Stars".

Even better, about an hour before I was supposed to go home, Kim from the London adventure showed up to serve her time (she is still international based, but has put in her transfer back to domestic).

I was released at 10pm, but since I had no big plans for the evening, I just stayed and played cards with her until midnight, when she was released. It was quite enjoyable.

Chatting happily, we headed out to the employee shuttle buses and headed to our respective lots. As the bus began it's bumpy route, I recieved a text message from a good friend in Annapolis and began settting up plans for my upcoming days off. When I glanced up from my phone we were passing an entirely unfamilar sign for the Turnpike.

Turns out I had gotten on the wrong bus and now had to go all the way back to the terminal and restart my journey!

The mistake only cost me a half hour and I had already hung out at the airport for an extra two hours anyway. At 12:30 am there weren't too many people around for me to embarassed, so the bus driver just had a good laugh as I swapped out my suitcases. To be honest, with the all the buses looking identical and the crazy hours when I tend to ride, it's really suprising I haven't made this mistake before.

At least I remebered where I parked my car.

Season One is a Wrap! No Honeymoon in Vegas, thank you.

Ok, I'm back.

With the happy couple off to Italy for a blissful three and a half week honeymoon, I'm no longer best supporting actress on this season of the Claire and Aaron show, but just your average Maryland-to-Jersey-transplanted-knitting-obsessed-jazzercising-conservative-catholic-reserve flight attendant and inconsistent blogger.

It is far beyond the scope of this entry to describe the wedding and it's preparations in any way that does justice, so I will just say that it was the most beautiful wedding I've ever experienced and it was an absolute blessing to be involved.

It was a sincere joy to witness family and friends come together to make the entire event a success, and an even greater joy the way this couple's love for each other and the Lord glorifies the sacrament of marriage and will do so for the rest of their lives.

Seeing them gives me great hope for marriage in general, and being the maid of honor taught me more than I could have imagined about the logistics of planning a wedding. (Let me mention that I wasn't exactly diving for the bouquet!)

The wedding and it's preparations have been pivotal to my life these past few months, but amid throwing showers, outfitting myself and assisting the bride-to-be as needed, I have managed to eek out a living as a reserve flight attendant and even indulge in a few new hobbies.

I'm working on a truly comprehensive update to be posted at a later time, but for right now I'll just say I'm in the city embodying the opposite of all things good and holy from reverent wedding last week....Las Vegas.

In case you that don't know, I HATE Las Vegas.

Fly over Nevada and it's desert....desert.... desert.....golf-course! Even before you glimpse the strip, you know somethings is just not right.

I won't rant at length, but the only glimmer of hope for me is the slim possibility I'll meet Brandon Flowers of the Killers in first class (they are from Henderson, NV, a Vegas suburb). No such luck this time.

Thankfully, the crowd last night was pretty tame for a Saturday to Vegas. Usually we sell out of everything alcoholic, plusm 3-4 creepy guys assume that a flight attendant working a flight to Vegas is an aspiring showgirl, and comment accordingly.

While the passengers mostly slept, the lead flight-attendant thought he was an opening act and kept making cheesy announcements like "Flight 468, non-stop service to Lost Wages" and "Remember, what happens in Vegas goes on the Internet."

As I said, it was relativlely quiet, but about two hours into the 5-hour flight, while the first class galley girl and I sat up front reading scavenged magazines, some woman from coach came up and literately flung herself on the galley floor.

We tried to ask her what was wrong, but all she did was roll around clutching her stomach. She wouldn't answer our questions, and I was pinned between the forward door and this adult woman writhing like a four-year-old past naptime.

Our initial concerned shifted to annoyance. She gave us no information and it became apparent she was just some European drama queen (there are always tons of forgeiners going to Vegas, I long to shake them and scream..."THIS IS NOT AMERICA!") who probably didn't get enough attention as a child.

I had to physically step over her prone personage to call the lead flight attendant, who brought her uninterested husband up to assess the situation. As the weak invalid finally rose from the floor (I don't care how sick I am, I will NEVER lay on an airplane galley floor) and pawed at the bathroom door until I opened it for her, he asked in broken English for some fresh lemons.

Yes, fresh lemons.

Then they returned to their seats and we returned to our magazines once our eyes refocused from excessive rolling. We didn't mention the incident again until relating it through uncontrollable laughter to the pilots in the hotel shuttle.

So here I am, minutes from the strip, happily blogging, holding tight to all of my cash. While I really enjoy blackjack, I just can't stomach the idea of leaving any money here. I pack munchies so I don't even have to buy lunch.

But as much as I hate Las Vegas, I'm really glad that I have been able to work a few flights out here.

I just finished reading "Bringing Down the House," a book about the kids from MIT who counted cards and made millions. It was a entertaining, easy read and I would recommend it, but I enjoyed it even more because I've been all the places they described. Maybe not the high-roller suites, but I am a familiar with the general setting, something I couldn't have said two years ago. From my short trips I have also learned I will never vacation here on my own, so I've been saved a possibly disappointing personal trip.

I'll end here for now, realizing that I've fulfilled the prophecy

What happens in Vegas goes on the Internet.