Travel Obsession

I'll admit it. I have an obsession with scoring an A boarding pass on Southwest. It ensures an aisle seat, space for my carry-on, and let's admit it, it's a status symbol. The secret to getting the A is checking in 24 hours before your flight - not 23 hours and 59 seconds. One second early, and you will be denied your pass. By the time you click in again, you're already a B. It's embarrassing to be a B. And I can't even imagine how much therapy I would need if I had to carry around a C pass!

Plan "A" was in effect again this week. Hovering over the "check in now" button at one second past, I speed-clicked. Yes! A-17. This was my best number ever!

The next morning, I proudly stood in the A line. Casually, I waved my boarding pass while turning to people behind me. "This A-17 pass makes a great fan. A-30 never seemed to cool me off - ha, ha".

Once on the plane, I found the perfect seat - 5C. Being on the aisle, I could go to the restroom without bothering anyone and I could jump up when the plane landed without having to wait for some slow-moving goofus to let everyone in the back off of the plane before letting me out of my row. Row 5 was close enough to the front for a quick exit but not so close that the decrepit pre-boarders could walk as far as my middle seat.

The middle seat - my other obsession. A perfect day - A17, C5, and an empty middle seat. It made me think of the Austin Lounge Lizards song "Jesus Loves Me But He Can't Stand You". I always laughed when I heard it, but today, I'm thinking that there might be something to it. I am loved.

While basking in comfort, I glanced up as the last person boarded. It was a woman with a 2 year old. Then I heard those dreaded words "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a woman here with a baby. Can anyone move to another seat so that they can sit together?" I'm thinking "Why is she so special? Lots of people don't get to sit with their loved ones when they arrive late for their flight. Run faster next time, lady."

When no one volunteered to give up their seat, the flight attendant tried to appeal through eye contact. I did what everyone else on the plane was doing - slouched in my seat, dropped my head so close to my magazine that it looked like I was legally blind, and tried to make myself invisible.

Maybe I was wrong about how much Jesus loved me because as I covertly twisted my eyeballs to the right, I was staring into the flight attendant's hip pocket. She tapped me, and loud enough for the people in the terminal to hear, asked "Ma'am, would you mind moving to a middle seat?" You could have heard an airplane-shaped graham cookie drop while everyone silently thanked God it wasn't them and then waited for my response.

In a panic, I noiselessly ran through the things I wanted to explain to her. "Excuse me, I don't know if you realize it, but I'm a 'A'. I believe that a more appropriate course of action would be to pick on one of the butt-lazy 'B' folks who couldn't drag themselves out of bed early enough to be an 'A'. Or how about the clueless 'C' people who walk down the aisle looking for their 'C-47' seat number? I always get a kick out of that. Just tell one that seat 'C-47' is actually 4 rows back - in the middle, and they wouldn't know the difference. And you probably wouldn't even need to offer them an extra bag of peanuts."

Before I could stutter out my alternate solutions, she began impatiently tapping her foot so close to my ankle that the breeze was causing me to come down with a cold. With an audible sigh and intentional shoulder droop, I was just about to consider reluctantly agreeing (maybe if they threw in a free round trip ticket or a life time of 'A's. . .) when I heard a croaky, high-pitched, death-whisper - "I'll move". I turned and saw a frail 98 year old (at least) lady struggle to get up while asking for help to get her walker from the overhead compartment. The whole plane broke out in applause for her while actively avoiding eye contact with me.

Why did this end up being between me and the oldest living person on earth? There were plenty of virile young men who could have easily been heroes, and probably didn't have an 'A' boarding pass, but no, they all acted like they had no idea what was going on. In a weak effort to explain myself, I mumbled "But I'm an A" to which I'm pretty sure I heard "you got that right, lady". I spent the rest of the flight pretending to be asleep and ignoring any offers of a questionable "beverage" from the evil flight attendant. I should have flashed my 'A' more.

Not a Time to Drive in CA

I just - barely - made it through California this week without getting a speeding, parking or annoyance ticket. The State police were everywhere on I-5. In fact it looked like they might have been trying to save money by holding their annual conference - in their police cars - in the highway median. It was a sea of black and whites with periodic flashing lights just to scare the dickens of the cars on the freeway. A flash of police lights and cars screech to a speed of about 25 mph. I guess if they don't get as many speeders as they'd like they can always get a kick-back from tow truck companies hauling the accident remains away.

I'm sure everyone working for or contracting with California is pretty upset by getting an IOU instead of a paycheck. Can you imagine trying to take your family to McDonalds and when they say "That'll be 12.99" you say "Can you cash my IOU? The State is good for it". Ah huh, and here's your change in recyclable plastic bottles, buddy. This you can exchange for real money.

I thought of a solution to the State's cash problem. If, by bad luck - or actually going really fast, one does get stopped for speeding, they should be given a choice between a ticket (and increased insurance rates) or picking an IOU off of a Sequoya tree. It would be like picking a child's name from a Christmas tree at Kmart but we would be giving adults a much appreciated shot of greenbacks. Not to give the governator any ideas, but since I won't be back in California for at least a month, I would support it.

Late Night Search

I know it's not just me because now I have proof! You know how, sometimes late at night, you google things like "red blotchy butt cheek", or "Is there really a Love Potion Number 9"? We do these searches in private, in the dim light of the TV and in comfort knowing that we won't be embarrassed by someone knowing our inner most dreams and fears.

Then along came a tool called "Google Search Words". If inclined to do so, bloggers can track the search words that people use to find their blogs. I'll admit, my curiosity won over privacy and I tracked what people were looking for when they instead found my blog. This information has done more for me than 6 months with a psychologist - I'm feeling like I'm not as "out there" as I was afraid I was.

Most of the searches I traced were from out of the country. I couldn't help but stifle a giggle when I thought of the blog entries they were lead to when they searched for:

"Polyester pants that breathe" (Florida)
"Y caliente es bueno" (Australia)
"My foot swollen" (Sweden)
"Haircut in Venice, Italy" (France)
"When phlegm is not contagious" (Texas)
"Women look you up and down means" (London)
"Cool things about getting old" (S. Africa)


and my personal favorite -
"Sleep with turtleneck" (Israel)

The world does keep getting smaller. I have a kinship with a person in Israel who is probably right now sleeping in their turtleneck - sweet dreams my slightly off-kilter friend.

How Not to Become a Little Old Man - 12 Simple Rules

1. When you put on your pants and pull them up, lower them at least 3 inches before you tighten your belt.
2. Nod your head as if you understand when someone says "That's so fierce!".
3. If you fall asleep on the plane and find that you have been drooling, mention to the person next to you that there is a leak above your head.
4. Every time you leave the men's room, check to be sure you haven't zipped your underwear in your fly.
5. No matter how spicy a meal is, smile and say "bring it on" - and discreetly cover your face with your napkin while swallowing a roll of Tums.
6. Remember that a "comb-over" makes you look older- try shoe polish instead.
7. No matter how cool you think it looks, don't wear black socks with sandals - really, don't wear any socks with sandals.
8. If you laugh, cough or sneeze, quickly eyeball your crotch. A wet spot on the front of your pants is a sure sign of an emerging old man.
9. Continue to trust your friends - but never trust a fart!
10. Don't ever ask anyone to guess your age - you'll either be shocked at how old others think you are (especially when they guess right!) or you'll know that a "low ball" guess means that person really thinks you're old.
11. Don't use slang to sound young - "golly gee", "he's square" and "that's the bees knees" will sound a like a foreign language to the below 50 crowd.
12. Don't mix plaids and stripes, knee-high socks with shorts or wear matching outfits with your spouse - unless you are comfortable and proud of being a "little old man".

Plane Talking

You know the person on your flight that coughs uncontrollably, blows their nose like they were keeping the beat to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun", and then hands your their germ-laden cup to pass to the flight attendant's trash? Sitting beside them is an ordeal - but being "that person" is like bad karma with a broken mirror.

Feeling pretty good as I boarded the plane, I squeezed my way into the middle seat between two neatly dressed business-types. As soon as I sat down, I felt an illness starting to spread rapidly through my body. Before I could mouth "how weird" my stomach started churning loudly announcing that it had a gift to give me. The barf bag was a god send. Silently, from both sides,two new bags were handed to me.

Soon my nose started running like it was in a race with my bladder. After running out of tissue, I discretely crumpled up some notebook paper and pressed it against my nose. Note to self - don't try this again.

I was getting ready to apologize to my seat mates when deep in my throat a cacophony of raspy uncontrollable coughs struck me speechless. The more I tried to quiet them by swallowing hard and breathing deeply, the worse my hacking became. My eyes decided to join in and glazed over with so much fluid that I couldn't see inside my purse to search for my last cough drop. The men beside me were actively avoiding eye or body contact.

Grabbing a pen and my last sheet of notebook paper, I wrote "This is not me. I think I've been inhabited by the ghost of someone who died on this plane. The real me is a healthy, well-mannered (single) person". Unfortunately, before I could hand it to window seat man, the drippings from my face openings made the words unreadable.

Not to be left out, my bladder chose to assert its will by demanding to be emptied several times during the flight. If I did not do its bidding quickly enough, my teeth began to ache in protest.

I was silently praying that a baby would start crying, someone would have a fit of machine-gun style sneezing or there would be a medical emergency on the flight. But no, everyone was quiet - except me. They were probably all struck mute by the fear that a woman with swine flu and TB was on board.

When we finally landed, my symptoms stopped as suddenly as they had started. Maybe the ghost couldn't leave the plane? It was too late to try to explain myself, and no one would get close enough to hear me if I did. Somewhere there is an evil spirit on a plane ready to inhabit another unsuspecting person. And I hope that person isn't sitting near me.

Spacelessness

There are times when I want to be alone - or at least have my own space. I'm beginning to think that I'm the rare bird. Like when I go into a public restroom - I love it when I have a choice of stalls! I walk past each, giving the door a little flip while I check the cleanliness of each. When I find the perfect one, I relax into my space. If I make a little "noise", I'm far enough away from the person at the other end of the room to not have to flush a few extra times, if you know what I mean! Invariably, the next person who comes in chooses the stall right next to mine. The restroom can be empty except for me - and the only other shoes I see are in the stall next to me.

Do I have some kind of bathroom pheromone that draws people to me?

The same thing happens on planes. The plane can be full except for the middle seats - they're all pretty much available. I can have my books, purse and coat on the middle seat and the first woman who walks in is magnetically drawn to the seat next to me. And it's not like they want to talk - they just have an irresistible urge to sit there. I'm watching everyone else on the plane stretching, elbows out as if there are getting ready to fly the plane themselves - while I'm squished against the window trying to do everything as if my arms had been tied against my waist. My range of motion consists of a limited front-ward movement of my forearms. Have you ever tried to open a peanut bag and drink you soda while your elbows feel like they are super glued to your sides? It does not make for a relaxing 2 hour flight.

And the woman in the middle seat acts oblivious to the grunts I make every time I try to turn the page on my newspaper or work on a sudoku puzzle. She seems perfectly content.

There is nothing special about me but maybe that's the draw. I'm pretty unassuming and look harmless. I am thinking of trying to change my image for the sake of some extra space. I'm pretty sure all it would take would be a clown wig for the plane and clown feet for the restroom. But, I'm afraid that the wig might draw the attention of airport security so maybe I could just put in fake rotten teeth and smile broadly at any woman looking my way. But with my luck, the woman will be a dentist with a lot of business cards.

I just thought of the perfect solution - one little item that can work for both the rest room and the middle seat. Easy to carry and easy to use - fake vomit.

Wish me luck!

Customer Minus Service

Is it just me or have you noticed that customer service isn't what it used to be. When you go to a doctor you hope to get out with your self-esteem and a correct bill. (" Ma'am, you can undress in the rest room. We only have small gowns left but put it on and try to tie it in the back and then walk down the hall - past the waiting room -to the last door on the right".) Does anyone really want to see my posterior parts while they are reading "Natural Health" in the waiting room? I don't even get undressed in front of my dog to save him from eye trauma!

Going to a restaurant is even worse. I've been with people who don't want to cause a scene so will timidly say "Ahhh, I ordered salmon steak with a salad and you gave me a cheeseburger with onion rings. But that's OK." They give me a fish-face look if I try to get them to send it back. And if I complain about my order, I'm told that "Our friendship is getting strained by your behavior". My behavior? All I want is the food I ordered and the bill for my own food.

Even the post office falls short in this category. I don't mind that I have to place my mailbox next to the road since it is a short walk up my driveway to fetch the mail. But when I get a package, my mail carrier pulls into my driveway and beeps for me to come to the truck and retrieve it. It's about a 40 foot walk from my door to the mail truck. I don't want to cause a fuss because - well they have my mail and I never know when I might have a big, unexpected check coming.

We are so used to poor customer service that when someone does what they are supposed to do, we almost cry with gratitude and ask for their supervisor's name so we can send a letter of appreciation.

I recently had a malfunctioning electric composter. I emailed the company. They sent me a free postage label to mail it back and within 2 weeks, it was returned in working order. At first I thought I was being punked but when no one appeared with cameras, I realized that this was good customer service. I, of course, wrote an email to the company praising them for their fine work.

Some companies now have cards that customers can fill out when an employee does something "exceptional". I've been trying to think about what I would write on a card to describe exceptional service.

"Jane didn't glare at me as she usually does when I asked for a coffee re-fill."

"This time Rick didn't say, when I asked that my passport picture be taken again, 'lady, that's what you look like'".

I'm perfectly willing to call good customer service "exceptional" if it means that I get my next package delivered to my front porch - whatever works!