“It’s raining…..It’s pouring…..my husband won’t stop snoring……He went to bed…turned his head…and I kicked him out this morning”….
I know snoring is no laughing matter, especially to the other person occupying the the right side of the bed who can’t sleep, due to the massive logs being sawed next to her…more like a buzz saw emanating from those nostrils. How does this rhythmic rhino sleep through his own band of breaths. How does he manage to open the floodgates of an airway to bring in ‘da Funk, bring in ‘da Nose….relentlessly causing him to not Breath Right. This is nothing to sneeze at.
The only semi cure to calm his turbulent turbinates is to roll him on his side so his schnoz is facing East. If he is resistant to that change in venue and chooses to remain on his back pausing to inhale; he will face the pillow of doom hovering over his face as he’s Waiting to Exhale.
I tried that once. It was a mere threat…..in jesture . My recidivist snore hog (snog) awoke to the Scent of a Woman who uses too much fru-fru fabric softener in the laundry, so he hurled a ginormous sneeze onto the pillow case:
“Were you holding a pillow over my face?”…..he asks Eyes Wide Shut incrusted with sleep particles.
“No, darling, you were dreaming.”….she coos, replacing the deformed microfoam to the head of the bed…for Her Eyes Only.
“You were holding a pillow over my head thinking to smother me with down feathers,”…he smirks with laughing Eyes.
“Don’t be Batt(y) sweet heart, that material contains too much airspace, if I truly wanted to off you I’d use the fiber- filled decorative throw pillows; everyone knows Polyester doesn’t breath”.
“So..you were trying to kill me in my sleep.” ….He spills out trying to suppress laughter.
“Not exactly honey -pie, it was more like adding a muffler to your mouth piece. You’re snoring”.
“I don’t snore.”..he deniably stated looking through the eyes behind his head.
(Oh..that’s right, how could you possibly hear yourself snore over the the clamor emitting from your palate as you lie there in your sleep number coma, oblivious to the affect is has on your neighboring bed mate. She beamed through her Betty Davis Eyes….).
That was the last time I tried the Muffle effect.
My next approach was during a visit out west staying with relatives and I tried the Extended- Arm -Prop- to -the -back technique. This enables your snog to remain on his side for the night, quieting the rumbling gasps; however, it will leave you Sleepless in Seattle with an Achy Breaky Arm in the morning. One night I chose to use the retractable-limb method: Once your snore victim (snortims) is on his side, your arm repeatedly jumps out into action with the slightest inkling of him turning onto his back. Sometimes this method calls for two arms to be utilized as you are dealing with unconscious weight. Weight that has been tipping the scales of late night snacking. There are repercussions when using this tactic, especially if you work out at the gym three to four days a week, as my husband once fell victim to the floor:
“You pushed me out of bed?”, he blew out after the THUD landing.
“No darling, you were dreaming”,...she winces, eyes squinting in guilt.
“You could have killed me”, he puffs out.
“No sweetums, the chili peppers you loaded onto your late night burrito will kill you, thus the THUD when you hit the carpet, I was merely administering a minor love tap to your back helping the jalapeno’s adjust”, she quips as her eyes search for a Eurythmic’s lyric….
“Would I Lie to you honey?…..ok..ok….you were snoring.”
“I don’t snore”, he freely denies …again…
This lead me to my third and final modus operandi: Which is a full proof formula so easy a dog could master it. This ritual not only works but will provide your slumbering snog the body of evidence that which he is being accused of: Disturbing the Peace(ful) sleeping wife:
I video taped him.
I filmed him in all his snore glory.
I showed him my presentation after I jiggled him awake. Just try and deny the snoring now my little sweet apnea…
“You filmed me sleeping?”, he says as as his Eyes roll to the Heavens.
“Yes, pumpkin, now there is no confusion as to your snoring or not. Here you are, In Living Color, lying on your back, breathing and expiring the snuffle shuffle through your nose to the tune of She Drives Me Crazy”.
“So what do you have to say now Mr. I Don’t Snore?”.( Her EYES have it!).
“THAT’S NOT ME”,….rolls over….fade to black..
(EYE GIVE UP!)
The training process lasted a total of six weeks and most of the time was spent in a classroom of some sort, whether it contained a mock-up of the new L1011 jumbo jet or or a mirrored room full of Elizabeth Arden’s new Fall colors. Rule #6 was designed to align our faces to model Cybill Shepherd, the pin-up girl of the 70’s. I guess every era has it’s poster child.
Our airline’s beloved American Idol was posted adjacent to the life size mirrors covering the walls of our classroom . The new stews arrived in a timely manner and rushed to their assigned station where a glossy Mauve box the size of a mini cocktail tray lay before them. We were all into our third week of instruction and everyone was well acquainted with each other and their State of being. I was seated next to Miss Georgia who dove into her box thinking it contained a creamy nougat or two, and after lifting the lid, immediately slumped into disappointment as she faced her assortment of Georgia Peach hues….
Each of the make-up boxes that were presented to us were pre-picked based on our skin tone, eye, and hair color, by a company that originated in 1911. I guess I was thankful that by the time 1970 rolled around Elizabeth Arden was sold to a pharmaceutical company and women no longer applied freshly picked berries onto their lips and cheeks. I’m sure Ms. Arden was rolling over behind her Red Door when her palette’s now featured the added Lab-Rat Lavender and Carcinogenic Cocoa as the headliner colors.
My pretty in pink box held colors suited for the Brown-eyed Brunette, who couldn’t fall farther from the Cybill Shepard tree. I watched as a prescribed make-up artist ran around the room blaring cosmetic counsel to make sure we all stuck to the Airline code and represent the Stepford “Stews ” Standard, and not think outside our laminated pink box.
The colors illuminating from my Box screamed an assortment of Moody Blues highlighting a crystal blue persuasion of eyeliners, while undertones of deep purple gave me a whiter shade of pale. All this Beauty in a Box repertoire was accompanied by Marvin Gaye crooning over the scruffy sound system:
What’s Going On…tell me what’s going onnn…
The next step was to tackle our hair. I watched as each member of the class of ’72 received bangs. It was a time somewhere between late chic Hippie shag and early Farrah Fawcett feathering. The last thing I remember is the stylist grabbing my ponytail wielding a giant pair of scissors and me sobbing into a pre -moistened towelette causing my freshly applied make-up to run. My new doo was now light and feathery carrying less weight. I guess minimal hair presented a larger allowance for extra carry -on luggage for the passengers.
When noontime finally rolled around I skipped lunch and ran back to my room. I raced through the lobby looking like Baby Jane Hudson after she finished her audition to Edward Flagg. Too late… too late……too late to call for help… I thought to myself ,as I was writing a letter to daddy to send money for a wig….
I never broke Rule 6……..unless washing my face after class constituted a crime of fashion.
It was lucky rule number seven that nearly did us in:
There were seven deadly weigh-ins; one per week topped off with a final one just before graduation. The first six were random checks in order to keep track of who would fit through the emergency exit and who would get their fat ass stuck in the window, causing passengers to reroute……
By the sixth week our class was as thick as thieves which began a tribe of neighborhood watch at The Villa’s. The one girl, Miss Georgia, presented a problem with weight gain and squirreled packets of Hostess Twinkies in her suitcase. On her sixth weigh-in she was three pounds over weight and could face banishment if she did not lose that cream filling by graduation.
There was a lot of buzz roaming around the Stew Zoo with regards to Miss Georgia’s weighty situation and none of us wanted a member of our class to fail, especially because of her love for yellow spongy cake hosting a shelf life of 25 years. We were a band of ingenue’s sticking together like the lavender varnish on our polished hands. There was a secret meeting to be held around the pool after dinner hour to discuss Miss Georgia’s cuisine habits. They thought posting a 24/7 shift of weight- watchers by her side to monitor her Twinkie intake might secure the issue, but that could heighten the Airline Gestapo’s suspicion and a few of us still felt the sting from breaking rule number One. So……after little consideration of the outcome, and by unanimous vote, the decision to break into the class weigh-in room and rig the scale won by a landslide.
Come morning weigh-in, the entire class registered three pounds lighter………
After completing the six week training for this eastern airline, a few of us went into Miami to celebrate and tip the scale of success for the graduating class of ’72. As we approached the restaurant I noticed a large picture of Cybill Shepherd smiling from a drug store window as she touted her Cover Girl make-up. I walked over to study the poster and laughed hysterically as I noticed her eyes were fixated on the props piled up next to her:
spread the humor….
(There will be no more “parts” to this as I have decided to continue my saga into a “diary of a mad flight attendant..featuring many not for prime time adventures”…..CW).
Rule number two was written in bold type with massive underlining and Italics.
I thought I left this behind after graduating high school. It made me wonder if all the “New Stews” parents held a meeting with the airline presenting their list of wrongs. I left my family back west purposely to break the confines of parental controls.
CURFEW… try telling that to my empty stomach at 10:00 p.m. My tummy had jet lag and was still adjusting to the three hour time difference as East met West in my digestive organ.
Miss Midwest and I missed our dinner bell and the Airline Gestapo sent us straight to our room without dinner. Just like in Junior High ,when your mother got mad just because you were sent home from St. Luke’s Catholic school for setting the goldfish free in the holy water during set-up time for the Church Bazaar. Anyway, as Midwest and I sat in our double occupancy suite rifling through drawers for signs of pre-packaged sustenance, I noticed a pair of eyes peeking through the gape of our drapes covering our partially opened window.
I whispered to Midwest that someone was outside our room. She walked over and flapped the curtain open and standing like a deer in headlights was the Bell hop from the Villa’s. We stood there glaring at him as he squeezed his face partially through the window and spoke in broken English:
“Are chjew gurlz mucho hungree?”.
It was Jorge ( pronounced: HORE-HAY). The Cuban bellboy that befriended a few Stews at the villa’s. He was our only connection to the outside when forced into solitary confinement. Jorge knew everyone and everything about the Villa’s. Jorge was able to get you Anyone and Anything at Anytime from the Villa’s.
We pleaded our gastronomic case and asked if he could fetch us some food. He stated he could but we would have to accompany him. Miss Midwest gave me the same look she gave as when I pulled her into the Bentley earlier that day. We had made the time constraint of the late night bed check, but we still needed to cover ourselves should the airline gestapo happen to sleep walk. We stuffed our beds with pillows and blankets to form an “S” shape resembling two laid out Stews. After shutting the light, we proceeded to crawl out the window with the assistance of Jorge who had a golf cart waiting behind a palm tree.
Jorge ushered us into the cart and drove us to the Villa’s Restaurant, which is excluded to New Stews and open to visiting vacationers. The one thing about an Airline School in the 70’s, is most of the students are pegged the moment they arrive, and are easily identified by staff and visitor’s. I was still in my Miami white attire and Jorge was dressed in his Villa’s employee uniform. I asked Jorge to loan me his tie and red jacket and walked through the Staff entrance to the restaurant kitchen. It was there I picked up a serving tray and started to slam salami and crudites onto a pile, followed by a stash of French baguette. The kitchen staff rambled something in Cuban pointing and laughing as I paraded my silver tray through the aisles of leftovers. I turned and popped them a smile and a Gracia’s and raced back to the golf cart where my cohorts in crime anxiously awaited.
Miss Midwest et all laughed up a storm as they saw me exit with a tray of delights wearing the Bellboy’s jacket and a black bow-tie. Jorge let me drive back to our room and as I parlayed the Cart in reverse and darted with full throttle in the dark, I neglected to look behind me and rammed another cart that approached from the rear.
Two well dressed “Suits” stepped out of their golf cart and stood hovering above us ready to land their disgust with this minor
accident incident. Both gentlemen cross examined Miss Midwest and I regarding our status at “this hour of the night”, and “are we employed by the Airline?”. I conceded and offered up our feeble excuse while slowly removing my rented costume and returning it to Jorge.
The one Suit who was missing his tie stepped closer into the light and leaned into our golf cart and spat out:
“Do you know who I am? I am the V.P. of the Airline that just hired you”.
I was hoping at that time I was not going to crap my Miami white polyester pants.
Mr. Veep scolded us and threatened to have us returned to our homes. It was then I realized I should have listened to my dad and applied to law school. He always said I could argue my way out of going the wrong way on a one way street.
I pleaded with the “Pinstripes” and begged forgiveness from the courting of the idea of; maybe, just maybe, a sentencing of no breakfast in the morning? I ended with my closing statement describing the heartbreak and disappointment our parents will endure as a result of us being thrown out of “Stew School”. I sniffled a sentence or two referencing my “stature as a temporary college misfit and winning the Flight Attendant lottery with your Esteemed Airline, and how this is a child’s dream come true to one day turn in my Miami White polyester for the Noble Blue Uniform of the Wings of Man”. Then I eeked out the airlines rusty slogan in the key of “E” flat with hopes of my cohort butting in as a back up singer:
“You gotta Belieeeve in Eastern……”
The V.P. nearly peed his pants to suppress his laughter. He took our names and numbers and ordered us back to our rooms. He instructed Jorge to drive us back safely. Miss Midwest and I crawled back through our window and fell onto our beds hardly sleeping, and thinking about our demise facing us in the morning.
It was 8:00 a.m. and the morning Gestapo shift entered our room to announce that “Miss Midwest and I were Grounded for a week”, thus being responsible for the breaking of rule’s #3 and #4………
Never miss class and Never miss your Familiarization flight……
It was then I started to study the tactic’s of Gandhi and missing a meal once in a while to prevent any uprisings. Plus, how was I to know that having Hotel Staff loitering outside your window after 11:00p.m. was breaking rule #5……..
(to be continued……)
Continuing on with the parody of entering the Airline world, back when the dinosaurs roamed, and First Class served meals on real china…….not made in China……..
My adventures with this airline flew me across the country miles away from my family and landed me on a small island in the Caribbean. It is pronounced Cah-RIB-Be-an…if you are to be a local. Most folks take on the pirated Johnny Depp’s annunciation: CARE- a -BEE-an. Well, if Johnny Depp was pilfering Puerto Rico when I was living there who in their right mind would focus on Grammar……
My first stop before heading off to the assigned base in San Juan, was a six week layover in Miami for training. I managed to meet up with another chosen trainee on my flight to Florida, as she was from Oregon, and after chatting for what seemed like eight hours, we decided to share a cab to our hotel; The Villa’s. aka….Stew Zoo.
Ms. Oregon and I were not accustomed to cabs and neglected to add a tip to our fare as we wrestled with our chump change laughing at the bottom of our purses. The driver stood in disbelief as he fingered the coins and darted after us yelling something in Cuban. Ms. Oregon turned around and flipped him an added gesture with her free hand. I stopped to dig deeper in my pockets while Ms. Oregon was long gone halfway down the walkway to The Villa’s. I was left with Scar face wielding and empty open palm in my direction. I felt my Airline funding from my parents was dwindling before I even started the job…..
When we entered the Hotel, the lobby contained two genre’s of patrons: “New Stews” and ” Lot’s of off the cuff men lingering after a busy day at Hialeah Race track. The “Stew Group” sat in a designated mosh pit and awaited their Commander and Chief to assign their rooms and deliver vagrant instructions. I was hoping to room with Ms. Oregon, but ended up with Miss Midwest.
While unpacking our allotted one suitcase only, my roomie and I went over the itinerary and rules for our six week stay:
1) There will be Three meal times: 8:00am Breakfast, 12:00pm Lunch, and 6:00pm dinner. Should you miss any of these time you will not be allowed in the cafeteria, and no compensation for missing meals.
2) There is a curfew: In rooms by 9:00pm and bed check at 10:00pm. Should you not be present during these times you will be sent home.
3) Never miss class, unless there is an emergency or illness.
4) Never miss your assigned Fam Flight. Familiarization flight, there is only one, and no make-ups.
5) No bringing anyone to your rooms. Cause to be sent home.
6) There is one day dedicated to make-up and hair, must be present and abide by the Airline standard.
7) There will be random “Weigh -ins” at the Airline’s discretion.
8) You must present yourself professionally at all times, remember you are representing the Airline.
9) No alcohol.
10) Welcome aboard “The Wings of MAN”. See you at 8:00am sharp!
My first week there I broke rule number one.
We had some free time and I went to the beach with my roomie. We managed a ride out there and did not secure a return trip back to The Villa’s. We were about eight miles from our Villa and it was getting to the dinner hour. Most of the trainees came with a minimal amount of money as the airline suggested, and thus money was to be used to secure your living quarters when you settled at your new Base. Not for shopping. My roomie and I used some of it in a few designer stores that screamed our names out as we passed by. We bought new outfits during our “free time” at the beach. We also realized we were short funds for a cab and the clock was ticking for our nightly room visit by the Airline Gestapo.
As Miss Michigan and I started to walk , and she was complaining about “not getting back in time”, and “getting thrown out in our first week”, and “these stupid shoes are killing her feet”. I wanted to stick my thumbs in my ears, but decided to flag my hand out and trail my thumb along the roadside towards traffic. My roommate was horrified and slapped my hand down and proceeded to lecture on “deaths of hitchhikers”. I told her who in their right mind would mess with two sunburned girls wearing new designer clothing?
I stuck my thumb out again. She slapped it down..again. I slapped her hand back and there we were having a hand slapping conversation along the roadside dressed in Miami white pants and matching peach tops scuffing our decorative jeweled sandals. As we stood there slapping Patty-cake, a vintage beige Bentley pulled up with a shaggy haired bespectacled -what looked like an aging rock star- behind the wheel and he asked us if we needed a ride.
I grabbed the door handle and then said “yes” before Miss Michigan objected. I tugged her too tight top into the back seat and blurted a “Thank you” to the driver. He asked our destination and I told him “The Villa’s”. He asked if we were Flight Attendants. I said yes we were and we needed to get back to our rooms before curfew.
Our ride was not that long, and started out in complete silence. My roommate kept darting hate stares at me and whispering heated words about , “Duct tape and Pick axes in the trunk……”.
The shaggy driver asked us if we “liked music” and stated he had “started a new band” and would we “like to hear his tape”. Simultaneously we said Yes. Miss Michigan leaned over to me and exclaimed in my ear: “Music soothes the savage beast”…apparently she still had shades of Ted Bundy running through her head.
The driver and I conversed about his new band and as we were getting closer to our destination I asked him about his Old Band. His former band. As he pulled into the back parking lot of The Villa’s and stopped to let us out, he turned around and said: “Oh.. I was the key-board player for The Doors.“.
I popped out of the car and smiled at my roommate. Ray Manzarek was our driver. THIS is why you buy designer clothes when attempting to hitch hike…..
As it turned out we made it in time for bed check, however, we neglected to eat anything and my stomach was aching. Mostly because I could have held intense conversations with Mr. Manzarek about Jim Morrison, but, instead, chose to fan off the continuum buzzing in my ear from my mid-western roommate about Hitch hikers and Serial killers.
It was my stomach growling that lead me to break rule number two………
( to be continued…)
I have made passing references about my past as an airline flight attendant, but did I ever fill you in on how I became one?
First I should inject that this was a career I had over thirty years ago and the Airline is no longer in service. No….it is not in the Smithsonian………but parts of it are in the Museum of flight exhibit. I happened upon this when I took my kids on a trip to Washington DC to view some history. Little did I know I would stumble across a notable prop plane with my daughter at my side pointing out to her friends that it has the same Logo that is on her mom’s Stewardess wings now collecting dust in a Jewelry box…
When most high school graduates were sending in their SAT scores to prospective colleges, my mind was set on traveling the wonders of the world, and I did not see my self scoring a place and having to SAT my seat in front of a desk thumbing through textbooks. I knew what I didn’t want to do but not quite sure what I wanted to do. I was the last of four children and I’m sure my parents were tapping their happy feet for me to venture out. OUT of the house.
I came home one day and told my mother I decided I want to be a flight attendant. My mother’s reply to that staement went a little like this: ” Why?….Any idiot can do that.”. Well, being that my grades were in the toilet at the time, and Harvard and Yale were not Knock-knock-knockin’ on my door…..in fact no college was knocking….not even a light tap-tap was audible; I decided to succumbed to my mothers statement and went to all available ticket counters at our local airport to fill out an application that might send this Idiot abroad.
My first interview and rejection was from a large airline that UNITED their fleet all over the globe. I returned home feeling distraught and feeling the FOOL and now realizing that I’m one less idiot that can’t make the cut. My mother sat in the living room reading her morning paper and sipping a cup of java as I entered the house with my head lowered fighting back the tears and laughing on the wrong side of the mouth. I crept in down the hallway and headed straight to my room to wallow in my defeat. Without looking up from her Dear Abby column she slung the words toward me:
“So..how did it go?”
I gave her my results through a broken voice :
“They said Thank you for coming……………NEXT!“
My mother folded the Times and placed it on her lap and looked at me. She could see the disappointment I endured and then uttered a few sentences that went like this:
“You know why they didn’t hire you? You’re too pretty for that airline. Your father and I fly that airline all the time and those girls are not easy on the eyes.”
Then she offered to call my father who knew the CEO of that airline to help me along with the process. I rolled my teary eyes at her and her backhanded compliment and declined her offer. This idiot doesn’t need a helping hand……
Out of the Ten or so applications I sent out to become a flight attendant three responded back with proposed interview dates. The first was the afore mentioned above, the second was from an EASTERN company that I had never heard of because I was a local from the Pacific Northwest. I had it set in my mind to handle this interview differently. I decided to let fate and nature take its course.
I borrowed a suit from a girlfriend that was one size too big, and clipped my long brown hair into a studious undocked tail of a pony. My make up was subdued and my pantyhose the color of the Ivory coast with my feet locked into someone’s leftover Nun’s shoes. I was the ugly Idiot determined to go abroad…..
I walked into the entrance of the building shuffling my shoes along the linoleum when something hit me in the pit of my stomach……….
It was yesterday’s enchilada.
I raced to the concierge for directions to the nearest restroom and made it to the porcelain thrown as chili peppers held an emergency evacuation of last nights dinner. I sat there in all my glory emptying contents and thoughts of missing my interview based on some bad beans. I fled from the scene of the chyme and raced upstairs to make my appointment. I hurried to the designated office and flew through the doors only to be greeted by a room full of life like Barbie’s. There they were aligned in a U- shaped formation around the room……….forty girls, beautiful, tall, perfectly postured, trimmed, sleek, impeccably dressed with Ultra- Brite smiles.
I crossed the room to take the final seat and sat there as my pony tail flogged the person next to me and my stomach growled Beethoven’s 9th……
An Airline rep entered the room and called out half the names to follow her and the second half remain in the room. I was left in the room. It was then I was ready to accept the fated realization that who in their right mind would hire this plain Idiot in an over sized hounds tooth printed attire shifting in their chair stressing to suppress a symphony of Gas. I should just relieve myself of this ill-fated agony ……Well that would be one way to clear the room of competition….
In those hours I managed a few trips to the ladies room, hoping I wouldn’t be marked “absent” for my upcoming interview. I was the last person called, and as the interviewer approached me I detected a wince emanating from her face as she ushered in her last candidate into her office who looked more like a Cabbage Patch Kid left out in the back yard too long than a prospective Airline Stewardess.
The Interview lasted over an hour and most the time it was filled with visual scrutiny and few ” ah yes….” and “Hmmm” as she scribbled addendum’s into her notebook. She ended with the usual “Thank you” and shook my hand. I walked out of her office knowing there was no future in this company for me and said “Thank you” in return. As I took three steps down the hall the interviewer called out to me and said:
” Say…would you mind changing your hair style?”
I spun around and looked her in the eyes and smiled my reply:
“If you can do something with this hair I would be grateful, I have been trying for years and can’t do a thing with it”.
It was a week later I got a call for a second interview and this is how that went down:
I wore a nice suite that fit, I wore wedge heels, I applied make up, and I didn’t eat any Mexican food the night before. I made the interview on time and noticed only one other girl in the waiting room.
I was called into a small dimly lit room with a leggy blonde sitting at a desk that held a smoldering cigarette in a glass ashtray. She stood up to greet me and we shook hands. She asked me to have a seat. I sat as she discussed the Airline’s back round and what is required of a Flight Attendant who works for this airline. I listened intently and answered when asked. She then told me there is certain protocol with this airline and there fore I needed to be put through some tasks:
One task was to see how you walked, carried yourself, stature, balance, and posture. She asked me to rise and walk about five feet and turn around to face her. I rose out of my chair and in doing so my nylon clad foot slipped out of my backless wedgies and I toppled to the floor. I got up from the cold tile and I turned to look at her and said:
“Well, that went well”.
The Marlena Dietrich Interviewer didn’t even flinch, she lit another cigarette and blew a puff of smoke in my direction and muttered:
I walked the allotted five feet steady as she goes, and spun around to return when she shot a command of :
“STOP. Stand right there.”
And I did. Frozen in step. Then she ordered another request:
“Raise your skirt up so I can see your thighs”.
Okaaayyyyy……yeah…….uuuuhhh…..yikes…sheesh….now wait a minute sister……can I have a nurse in the room?
I stood across the room and questioned the thoughts going through my head. I looked back at her through another puff of smoke as her head glanced down at a sheet of paper filled with check marks. I stood there with my eyes closed as I grasped the bottom of my skirt and fanned the hem high above my waist resembling a card board cut out of a Can-Can girl………minus the kicks. While poised center stage flashing my Moulin Rouge,I heard the interviewer cough a chuckle and state:
” You can put that skirt down. This year our Flight Attendants are wearing Hot Pants and we need to see the size of the legs to see if it is a right fit for the uniform”.
Strike two….I’m batting a thousand..I’m sure I’ve nailed this job…..what…..starting with a fall , followed by flashing my panties with Thursday written all over them…..as if she needed reminding of what day is was…..
She walked me to the door and said: “Thank You”.
I reiterated the same and tried to leave with what dignity I had left, and as I took another step she called out to me:
“I forgot to mention where you will be based, you have a choice of New York or San Juan”.
I told her San Juan is fine, being that I was from the Pacific Northwest and we use to boat around the San Juan Islands all the time and I would be close to my hometown of Seattle.
She blew her final puff of smoke and went back into her office.
A week later I received a packet from this EASTERN company announcing my acceptance to the airline and a welcome aboard the “Wings of Man”. I was so excited I rallied around the family and told them my base is really close to home.
“It’s San Juan”, I scream with delight.
My sister read the fine print of my contract and stated it was a base in PUERTO RICO……
spread the humor.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.