Tellin me about a party up in OKC. And can I make it? Damn right! I'll be on the next flight. Payin cash, first class, sittin next to Vanna White!*

Woo-hoo, I'm in Oklahoma!

My first time in Oklahoma City to be specific.

Allegedly it's a different city than Tulsa. It's considerably west, and I vaguely remember an NPR piece about how Tulsa tends to vote and act like deep south Arkansas and Oklahoma City has more of a wild West persona.

But it's a lot like Tulsa.

Maybe it's just my East Coast eyes and ears, but the airport looks the same, the people talk the same, and there's about the same amount of nothing to do.

No matter, this is the kind of layover where my suitcase full of fun proves itself despite curious eyebrow lifts from TSA every time I go through the x-ray. Good books, knitting projects, stationary and (of particular importance here in cattle country) vegetarian provisions.

And I have the leisure time to update my blog.

There hasn't been much to write about lately. I had a tremendously ordinary four-day trip last week (I actually layed over at LaGuardia in NYC, just minutes from my home base of Newark), and then made it home for a few days.

I came back to NJ a day early and on Wednesday saw Colleen receive her doctoral robes from Rutgers. She looked beautiful (and smart!), her parents were beaming, and the rain held off until everyone cleared the lawn. In all, a beautiful day.

That night, even though Colleen is the math professor, I was the one geeking out to a good game of Risk with the newlyweds. I held my ground for most of the night, but it's hard to take over the world from Iceland.

I'm not sure that I'd fare much better at global domination based here in Oklahoma City, so I guess I'll just stay on this trip and end up in Miami tonight.

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*My crew is fun and they appreciated my late night improvements on early 2000's Nelly raps. It's going to be a good trip. Now if I could only pimp my suitcase.

Best Layover Ever.....but the day after SUX

I arrived in Baltimore Wednesday at about 10pm, and since my mom only got lost once, I was home in Annapolis before the midnight Frasier reruns on Lifetime.

Thursday morning I did a double session of Jazzercise, repacked my little lunchbox with Boca burgers and (much to the appreciation of crew and passenger alike) threw my uniform in the wash. All in all, a perfect layover.

Thoroughly refreshed, I headed back to BWI to finish my trip. With the previous two days being so nicet, I should have anticipated the fallout.

Friday was already scheduled to be a kicker: a barely legal nine hours of crew rest in Dallas, then a three and a half hour flight to EWR, two and a half hours of sit time, followed by a Detroit turn.

Knowing that I could take a little nap later in the day, I managed to get up at 4am and stay awake during the flight to EWR. I actually fell asleep in the crew room (hooray for earplugs and eye masks!) and made it to the plane for DTW.

I knew we got a new lead flight attendant for the Detroit turn (once you are a line holder, you can do amazing things with your schedule like drop trip segments if there is reserve coverage), but I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was, Mandy, a girl I had flown with over a year ago.

I was happy for me, but I felt bad for her because she commutes out of Detroit, and going there just to come right back is a terrible tease.

Of course when I say "come right back", that doesn't include the three-hour delay.


But we made the best of it.

We wandered the terminal which, aside from our gate, was full of little prop planes destined for places like Sioux City, Iowa and Kalamazoo, Michigan. We speculated what those airport codes could be (and who exactly wanted to go there). We hit every gift shop and took pictures of each other donning Paparazzi-proof sunglasses and Michigan souvenirs.

At one point we struck up a conversation with a young pilot from Mesaba Airlines (a regional carrier for Northwest) who was also trying to kill a few hours. He told us tales from the sketchy world of local aviation and I dazzled them with obscure honeybee facts I had just learned from the book Peggy gave me for Christmas ("Robbing the Bees" by Holley Bishop).

We were all pretty punchy, and sat there at the mini-Fuddruckers with a pile of french fries and eight dipping sauces regally lined up between us, cracking up at everything until we could no longer stand the evil stares from other customers coveting our table.

ATC finally let us go because our pilots were about to go illegal and we made it back to EWR around 10pm (that makes for a 16hour day).

I didn't get my personal drop for Saturday. Instead, scheduling had a Fort Lauderdale turn lined up for me that got back just in time for me to miss the last flight back to DCA and really mess up my Mother's Day plans.

But it was great to see Mandy again and we had fun with our Mesaba buddy.

It was really an enlightening afternoon. He informed us that the airport code for Sioux City is SUX, and that poor man will forever think of a certain crazy Newark flight attendant whenever there is mention of a honeybee.

You heard me right...I love them (and my job).

Yesterday I started composing an unhappy account of my treatment from scheduling. Unfortunately, my internet connection kept cutting out (that's a whole different unhappy account), so I was unable to tell the world how badly I am abused and envoke sympathy from across the blogosphere.

The complaint was accurate, well-written and I'm sure will be quite appropriate in the future, but right now, I LOVE SCHEDULING!

My trip isn't too exotic, but remember, this is my job, and I have a near-perfect working trip with a special bonus....I get to go home!

They called me at a respectable 9am for a 1pm check-in, so I wasn't too rushed (which is good because I was on the phone with Verizon tech-support for an hour this morning). It's a four-day trip, so that means lots of tax free per diem (the real way to make money), and it's worth over 25 flight hours.

Tonight I'm in Seattle.

It's right by the airport, but let me just say that if it looked like this right by EWR there would be a lot fewer Jersey jokes.

I went for a nice long walk, though I looked a little silly in my little summer polo dress, white sneakers and my uniform sweater (perhaps I packed a little too lightly, anticipating my Baltimore/ANNAPOLIS! layover tommorrow).

The landscape has so much texture and color. The trees are a mix of pointy firs and shaggy pines in every shade of green then spotted with the brightest pinks and white from flowering fruit trees and shrubs. The cloudy gray sky seems to make all the colors a little more intense, and because it is so hilly the view changes with almost every step.

It's still very early spring here. In the cool evening, I could see and smell woodsmoke drift from quite a few chimneys. In Maryland and New Jersey the lusty lilacs have been wide open and fragrant for weeks already, but here they are still dense buds, waiting for the right moment to burst. I wish I could be here when they open.

I took a ridiculous amount of pictures for a walk through SeaTac suburbia, but I was just so happy to be out in the fresh air, I wanted to capture it all. I even picked up pine cones and interesting leaves to press. I don't know if they'll make it into any of my art projects, but I have them should inspiration strike.

Sadly, this ancient computer in the Marriott lobby doesn't have a slot for my camera's memory card, so I can't share any of those pictures now. You'll just have to use your imagination.

May I add that the computer may be ancient, but this hotel is spectacular. It has a modern/rustic Northwestern feel and a gorgeous atrium filled with plants and good lighting. In fact, this Marriott is so gorgeous that Best Western Hotel Group is holding a corperate event here. Imagine that.

I will end for now and head back to my room to read while sipping a cup of delicous in-room Starbucks coffee.

This is Seattle after all.

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.