38,000 Feet: Bless Your heart, Bitch

I considered being a flight attendant for about five minutes.

It was between the summer of college and graduate school. A girlfriend was thinking of applying, and I thought, "Why not?"

I'd get to see the world, make a little extra cash, date a pilot...and best of all, get my hair done at the American Airlines Flight Attendant Academy (still a dream of mine), AND get flight benefits of my very own to dole out at my leisure to people who were nice to me.

Given that my mother was an employee and that I had been non-revving for years (airline speak for flying on passes), I was a natural. I knew all of the airport codes and all of the flight attendant lingo by heart. I could rock that speech about "returning your seats to their full and upright position. Be careful about opening overhead bins as articles may have shifted during flight."

(Apparently, I can still rock it.)

I ran the idea past the Guiding Force in my Life and the Keeper of my Best Interests at Heart: my mother.

Mom: I don't think that would be the best fit for you...you would have to serve drinks, and people can be kind of a pain sometimes.

(My mother is so nice--that is her way of saying, "People are complete assholes and should crawl under a rock and not expose themselves to anyone. Ever.)

Mom: And...you know...you wouldn't be able to get...lippy with people.

(Lippy was a very common adjective for me growing up...as in "Don't be lippy." Or, "Don't get flip." I had a tendency towards sarcasm. And although I was (and am) kind-hearted, if I felt that I was being maligned, I would get vocal about it. In other words, at 38,000 feet, I couldn't get all Julia from Designing Women on someone's ass.)

Me: (shame-faced) You're right.

Growing Up in the One-World Alliance

Mom took a job with American Airlines in 1987.

Our first pass--a "Welcome Aboard" pass brought us to the lovely den-of-iniquity: Las Vegas (I Heart Vegas). We were going for the day.

I imagined school on Monday--people inquiring about my weekend, and me tossing (my really awful '80s-feathered) hair and stating rather nonchalantly, "Oh, I went to Vegas for the day."

(Now--let me interject here--and offer advice to teenagers the world over. Consider this a gift. Learn from my mistake. Don't do know what I just did--you look, sound, and act like a total douchebag.)

(Having said that, if I acted that way to you...it was because you were mean to me. I had to engage in some semblance of superiority. Sorry about that. But not so sorry that I wouldn't do it again.)

Growing up in the Alliance meant I had lots of opportunities that many kids my age (or anyone else on the planet) may not have had. I traveled overseas. I flew first class. I, along with the other well-dressed non-revs, waited by the gate hoping to get a seat on an oversold flight.

I met all kinds of people, witnessed a food fight on a DC-10, and saw a belligerent jackass bully a gate agent in Chicago.

It was a study in human nature.

Adulthood in the Alliance

It is funny...as a non-rev, you have to represent the airline (rightfully so, in my opinion...you're flying on their dime).

We have different dresses for "first" and "coach." Often, it's easier to "dress" for first in case coach is full. That way, you have a seat. (I have seen a family getting kicked off a plane in Frankfurt for wearing jeans in First.)

And I love the process--love looking crisp and cool in my outfit--envying the revenue passengers, to some degree, because they could dress how they wanted--but also knowing that hell would freeze over before I would ever display toenails that looked like that!

(Seriously, people. If I can see toe jam, cover it up.)

Adulthood in the Alliance: Post 9/11

I hate to travel. Now, it is degrading to me.

Air travel used to be a luxury--a sign of comfort, of security, of privilege. People dressed for it. It was not a means-to-an-end but an experience.

The last person to meet me at the gate was my dad. It was April 2001.

Now there is no one.

The world has changed and air travel (obviously) with it. We have engaged measures of security to ensure our livelihood.

And, at first, we went along with it.

Didn't we?

We succumbed to having our luggage searched, our shoes searched, and in my case, my breakfast from Au Bon Pain searched.

We brought in the Army...and we brought in the TSA.

Customer Service, National Security, and Fuck You (Yes, I said Fuck.)

Working in the airline industry sucks, in my opinion. After I got over my brief flight-o-fancy about being an air hostess in the sky, I began to come around to my mother's way of thinking. People can be awful and treat you like shit--especially in the customer-service arena.

(And lest you be all self-righteous, who hasn't gone all Rambo on the Comcast Guy?)

So, I treat others around me with respect. I am not mean. I dislike deliberate cruelty (especially among adults). I try to treat others as they would like to be treated.

I sometimes have a Julia flare-up...but only if it concerns me or mine. And I do recognize--that for a young Grace kelly--I have a terrible potty mouth. But, for the most part, I pick my battles and swallow my words.

So, I get that Gate Agents/Ticket Agents/Security Agents see the worst in people. And may act accordingly.

And I have to say--in my 23 years of travel--I have only seen the best in these people (except at O'Hare).

One Gate Agent had to escort me off an airplane in Minneapolis. The flight was full--he managed to snag me a seat--and there I was cocooned in snug American Airlines comfort...when the jackass who bought the seat showed up at the last minute.

The GA came aboard th airplane, apologized, and told me we had to go.

I grabbed my luggage and followed him off the airplane. I am choked up.

"Those people think I'm a TERRORIST!" I cry.

"No, they don't," he reassured me, "I promise."

I called my mom--crying about my humiliation and to come get me.

That GA got me home to Dallas the next day. First Class.

I always make it a point when I'm at the airport to stop in and say hi.

March 2009

I have not traveled in a coon's age. I had been home in 2008 and traveled on business in 2007.

So it has been a while.

I haven't forgotten the drill. Laptop out. Ziplock bags full of toiletries. Shoes off.

I am looking extremely fetching today. Dressed in head-to-toe-Ann Taylor with matching jewelry. I admire how I had coupled two rings on one finger: my grandmother's wedding band and a ring of my mother's--the sapphires against diamond nestling together.

I feel good. I feel confident. I am non-rev worthy.

And I am heartbreakingly sad--as I am going home to Dallas for a funeral. My whole goal is to get on this airplane.

Going through security, I notice a spilled drink on the floor.

My shoes are off, and I edge away from it.

I tip-toe across towards security. I am a bit leery about this floor at best.

I reach out to hand my boarding pass when I am met with resistance by someone resembling Jabba the Hut.

Jabba: "YOU!" I need you to stand back!"

Me: "Um...okay." Wondering if there is something aside from a precious metal gracing my life form.

I creep forward again.

Jabba: YOU need to WALK through LIKE a NORMAL HUMAN BEING!

I realized what she was talking about--me sidling about on my toes--trying to avoid the spilled liquid--along with other people's germs--not only made me a suspect somehow--it made her a bully.

Me: I'm sorry--but there's a spilled--

Jabba: I THOUGHT I told you to STAND BACK and WALK THROUGH HERE LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING.

I walked through like a "normal human being." Whatever that meant.

I suppressed my inner Julia but did a fine job of thanking the other TSA officers loudly and profusely.

I grabbed my luggage and put on my shoes and fumed.

How dare I be treated that way? Should I do something? Not do something?

As a guest of the airline, I pretty much have to keep sweet.

What recourse do I have?

I need to buy toothpaste--since apparently, the tube I own at home is verboten.

I make my way to the convenience store to buy toothpaste.

I see a TSA guy there.

But wait--TSA is government, not airline.

Julia bubbles to the surface.

I march over and tap that TSA guy on the shoulder.

"EXCUSE ME, ARE YOU TSA?"

The child, who barely has had time to grow pubes, nods.

"I HAVE A COMPLAINT TO MAKE. THAT WOMAN WHO WORKS DOWN AT ENTRANCE ONE?" I give him a rundown of the scenario. "LET ME TELL YOU--NO ONE--NO ONE--DESERVES TO BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT! I AM A HUMAN BEING. A PERSON. WITH FEELINGS. I AM GOING TO DALLAS FOR A FUNERAL. AND LET ME TELL YOU: THIS IS THE LAST THING I NEEDED TODAY!!!!!!!!"

He asked if I wanted to talk to security.

"NO! I HAVE TO GO--BUT I WILL SAY THIS, I APPRECIATE THE WORK YOU DO (not really), BUT THERE ARE A LOT OF BAD PEOPLE OUT THERE! AND I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE!"

I called Man once landing in Dallas to see if I could sue for someone being a Complete Fucking Idiot. I informed him I had been egregiously insulted.

I called my mom--who was VERY PISSED on my behalf. She told me to call security next time.

So...Jabba the Fucking Hut in MSP Airport, Door Number One: this is my message to you--

Contrary to popular belief, you do not make my flying experience a safer one.

Quite fucking frankly, sugar, you're not that smart.

If you were, you'd be doing something else.

It took a lot of planning to fly a couple of airplanes into a building--thus causing mass destruction and loss of life.

I don't think you and your X-ray machines or you lack of mental capability can top that.

So, I will say this:

Should I ever encounter your ugly, disrespectful mug again and you ever treat m me like that again, you'd best hope your soul belongs to Jesus 'cause your ass belongs to me.

Or, as we like to say in the south, "Bless your heart."

Bitch.