John Boehner's Crybaby Alien Lives In Me

You knew that I was related to John Boehner, right?  I think we are cousins.  Distant, far removed cousins perhaps.  But all kidding aside, I swear to god that we must have the same genes or DNA tucked away deep inside somewhere.  He has taken heat for the way in which our common thread of DNA manifests itself in his life.  So have I.  You see, we are both crybabies.  I don't know about him but I'd venture to guess that I get tears in my eyes on almost a daily basis.  Maybe every other day or two if I remain 100% out of human contact, don't watch any TV or TV commercials, and stay off of the Internet.  Oh, one more thing....if I avoid conversation with my mother.  She always makes me cry when she closes nearly every phone conversation with, "Arnie, you know I love you....I really do.  I'm so proud of you...."  Lordy.  I'm a mess.

I see an animal rescue site with sappy music playing and I lose it.  Although, admittedly, Sarah McLachlan doesn't have quite the hold on me that she once did thanks to seeing those commercials for so many years.  So there.  See, I'm a big boy.  I see stories of soldiers returning home from war and sneaking into their children's school classrooms to surprise them and my throat closes up.  Or a homeless woman on a street corner who is will into her 70s or even 80s -- and she shares the same name as my very own mother.  My heart goes out.  Or perhaps I get into a conversation about any one of life's many difficulties with someone -- how they, or I, want to be a better human being than I am today.  Umm, yeah, don't expect me not to cry at that either.  Or I see an adult who you would suppose would have their act together by this point in their life -- but they don't.  Alcohol or drugs still have a stronghold on their ability to be a good parent, son, daughter, etc.  I think of my own experiences and how these sorts of situations strike awfully close to home.  Or I watch the resignation of Congresswoman Gabby Giffords as she hobbles with every bit of might she has up to John Boehner to submit her written letter of resignation.  John cries.  I sob.

Man oh man, John Boehner's sobbing crybaby spirit lives within me.  Sort of like an alien.  Who cries.  An alien who cries.  Yeah, that's it.

Peculiarity

He tells me that I'm peculiar.  And that I use weird words.  And phrases.  And I tell him that he could be married to an ax murderer serial killer.  Or Newt Gingrich or Rick Santorum or Rick Perry.  So there.  

He laughs and giggles at me when I use certain words.  He'll make me "Say it Again."  And then we both laugh.  And now that I'm completely familiar with the words that I know will set him off, I take my time saying them.  Really drrraaawww them out.  Emphasize them and make them worth the laughing.  For some of the words, it's that I use them at all.  For other words, it's the emphasis or accent I put on them, apparently.  Words and phrases like:

Crisps (It's the ending "P" and "S")

Residual (who else in god's name uses this word??!!)

Liquid

Potato or Taco Bar

 Rolls (as in bread or rolls...maybe I spend too much time on the "oolll" part)

Meal (instead of using the word food...maybe I draw out the "ea" part). 

Just normal, old, everyday words that everyone uses from time to time.  I suppose I caught the weird word and pronunciation disease from my mom or something.  Or perhaps I do it now just to give us something to laugh about.  You do that in old age, you know.  Weird things.  Funky things that nobody else does....or would ever do.  And the longer you've been together, the longer the list is of things that go on just between the two of you.  And that's peculiar too. 

While He's Under the Weather.....

As long as he is down and out and recovering from his shock wave lithotripsy, I thought I'd go ahead and take full advantage of his drug-induced inebriation.  To make fun of him.  He knows that I'm going to.   But perhaps the drugs will keep him from remembering that I am going to. 

Yesterday while he was waiting for the anesthesiologist to come in and shoot him full of la-la drugs, he used the word clairvoyant.  Which is fine except that he used it in some weird, inaccurate way.  He does that.  Frequently.  Well, perhaps regularly is the more accurate word.  He gets so close.  And yet so far.  I don't even remember how the word clairvoyant was used yesterday except that it caused us both to laugh so hard I'm sure the nurses wondered what was going on in room #24.  And then we go off on some twisted sort of tangent making up phrases and words and meanings. 

He'll get names messed up -- maybe he'll stay "I talked to our neighbor Mark" when the guy's name is  Mike.  One of his favorites is, "Boy is that house ever dilapiTated."  Years this has gone on.  I keep on saying, "It's dilapiDated."  And one that comes into play frequently (because I'm a crybaby) is "Are your eyes welTing up with tears again?"  When he knows full well that it is "welling." 

But this clairvoyant thing.  Man oh man, what was it....???  I just can't remember what it was the other day while he waited for the dude to come and knock him out.  Whatever it was, my eyes welted up with tears in that dilapitated hospital room. 

Wriggle to Create Heat

Just when you think you've seen or heard it all......I was working the "C" position this morning from Portland to Orange County.  "C" position is the back galley.  On a Boeing 737-700 aircraft.  A had seen a large group in the boarding area...maybe 20 or so teenagers with obligatory adults along to tame the errant young tendencies.  So the first guy on board is wearing a green Portland Timbers t-shirt and heads to the back galley.  Seemed like a nice enough guy, friendly, chatty.  And he says to me....."Hey, my wife is going to kill me....she said for me not to come back here and ask you this but I told her I was going to do it anyway......is there any chance you'd go up and warm up my seat for me before I sit down?"  I told him to just let his wife watch this.....I marched my tender, yet silly, little early morning self up to his row, asked him which seat was his and sat down in it.  I wriggled around a little....."to create friction and heat," I told him.  His wife was looking at me like I was about as far out of my ever lovin' mind as one mildly delusional flight attendant could possibly get.  He sort of liked it.  "Yeah, like that.....okay, that's good," he says.  And I got up and left.  His wife staring.  He and I giggling.  In my 16 years....that's a first. 

The Best Part of Waking Up.....

"The best part of waking up, is Folgers in your cup......"  For some reason, I remember my mother-in-law when I hear this.  She apparently heard me singing it early in our years together -- and always, always reminded me of it.  She would sing it to me after that.  Remind me of it. Fa la la la.  I do like to sing.  Songs and commercials and such.  And some very, very old.  Like yesterday I was singing Charlie Rich's When We Get Behind Closed Door and Helen Reddy's Angie Baby.  Don't ask.....

It is no secret that we live in one of the most well-known coffee drinking parts of the nation.  We have coffee stands everywhere, every corner, every grocery store.  And we do like our coffee in home.  But we waste it.  You see, many days one of us gets up at 4am.  The other one, perhaps, not until later.  The coffee just isn't good after sitting on the burner that long.  Or we brew a whole pot and then decided to go out to breakfast -- one of our many my bads.  So, the coffee brewed at home gets poured down the drain.  We've tried making less.  Partial pots.  But after all these years, I still find myself pouring out more of the delicious expensive elixir than I'd like to. And every time I do, I simply HAVE to make a comment about our waste and how much money we spend a month on coffee. 

You see, we have tried Folgers and Maxwell House.  And I can sort of deal with it...it's fine but nothing special.  So, we try to grab the more expensive kinds when they are on sale -- Starbucks, Tullys, Seattle's Best.  And now we've discovered a lovely 24 ounce package at Cost Plus for $8.79 which is a great deal for some pretty darned good coffee.  So, that's what we've been doing lately....Cost Plus.  But, still, it's expensive.  I figure we spend between $20-$30 a month on coffee.  And that's way too much to be pouring it down the drain.  If I were my mother, I'd pour the leftover coffee into a big bowl or glass jar or pitcher to reheat in the microwave the next day.  But that simply won't work for my prissy gay self. 

Needin' My Easter Crack

No silly, not that kind'a crack.  I mean The Easter Sugar Crack.  The white stuff.  The dope that raises your blood sugar levels up to an appropriately inflated boiling point and then drops you off like a cheap whore after a $20 night in Tulsa. 

We enjoyed a nice quiet Easter -- except for the allergies and head congestion that have moved into both of our sinuses.  Seriously, it's like they have settled in with sofa, chairs, dining tables, and all of the kids up inside our heads.  Ick.  I've been giving myself daily north-end enemas (see, I had to say north because of all you whacked out crazies that would have read something sort of naughty into this whole deal).  North-end enemas consist of both morning and evening use of the NeilMed Sinus Wash -- available at Target, CVS, Walgreens, wherever.  If you've got head trouble, use this bad boy.  Seriously.  Back to my story now.....the quiet Easter.  We had a low-key dinner at a friend's home late in the afternoon.  Now the story goes that LoverBoy has been on a low-cal, low-fat, low-sugar, high-boring, high-icky, high-blech diet for some time now.  He's lost 16 pounds.  Amiable except that I needed a hit.  So on our way to dinner I demanded that we leave early because I needed to make a booty call at our local store on the way.  To see if maybe, just possibly, the Easter crack was on sale yet.  Walgreens -- a bag of Reese's peanut butter eggs (just in case the next store was closed....I'd at least have sumthin' to chow on).  And the Easter holiday light of Jesus was shining on me....because the next store was not only open....that sucker was humming with people.  We did the circle tour of the store and ended up in the Easter candy aisle.  My eyes darted to and fro, back and forth, up and down....looking, glancing, eyeballing for the best deals.  In goes a pretty bag of Easter peanut M&M's....lying so lonely in the bottom of my shopping basket.  It needed company so in goes an obligatory small package of the original sunshine yellow Peeps!  Ahh, such little cutie pies....stuffed with marshmallow cream and glazed in yellow sugar.  Perfect.  But, wait, wait, wait.....hum.....what's going on here.....I do like those Whopper Robin Egg Malted Balls....but there's just the big, giant sized package....42 ounces of heaven.  I was hoping to exhibit some of my discretionary limitation skills here and pick out the smaller package...but, alas, there wasn't one.  So, after a quick consultation with the ever-dieting LoverBoy, I tossed all 42 ounces in my basket with a giant clunk.  And away we go.  Self checkout.  Debit card.  And out to the Soul. 

Now, all I needed was a tourniquet to get my veins all plumped up for the shooting in of the Easter sugar crack.  No, wait, skip the tourniquet....I can just snort this crap.  Easter was indeed a nice day. 

If You Think I'm Sexy....

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy come on honey let me know.....la la la....1978, Rod Stewart.  I thought I saw Rod walking along Congress Street in Austin just last night....but then I realized it was some guy(?) on his way to the club on a Saturday night.   We departed Austin early this morning for our 3 1/2 hour flight to San Jose.  A few seats open but nearly full.  It will come as no surprise to you that I've run into all kinds of characters in my life as a stewardess.  But today gets a whole chapter all to itself in my book of life.

The guy was big.  Maybe 275 pounds or so.  And tall with a couple, or three, jiggly chins.  Sneakers untied, no socks.  And a yellow shirt that smacked of the south, a conservative well-worn one.  With little funny golfers on it.  Maybe from some southern department store back about 1987 or so.  He was probably in his early to mid 40s.  He never told me...despite the fact that he asked my age and refused, refused I say!, to believe me at 49 years old.  "Nuh uh," he kept saying.  He hung around the galley.  For a really, super long time.  Now, we flight attendants are not known for enjoying people in our galleys.  Its our space, lots going on there, and we like to chill and enjoy a coffee after the service is complete.  But today was not going to play out that way.  He blathered on about life in Austin, how he'd moved there to go to school after playing in the NFL for six years with the Green Bay Packers.  He had a wife with no further information beyond that.  He wanted a vodka and cranberry but his credit card had been declined earlier this morning when he'd tried to use it to upgrade to First Class -- "I was supposed to be in First Class," he tells us.  So, we scanned his card anyway and gave him his cocktail.  Instead of returning to his seat, he kept on chipping away at the intimacies of life.....all 275 pounds of him smack dab in the middle of our galley.  Me on one side, my friend Cathy on the other.  I kept on trying to sneak glances at her around his expansive mid section.  But it was hurting to bend my neck that far around him.  He brought out his iPhone and showed us his music selection -- U2, Eric Clapton, Rush.....others.  "I used to smoke pot and listen to Rush."  He was from "Pennsyltucky," as he put it.  The back hills of Pennsylvania.  But with Cathy being from North Dakota and me from Idaho, neither of us had any compelling reason to think we were any better.  I made up the state "PennsyltuckyIdakota" and we all had a giggle.  Another cocktail for him, please....now we're up to four vodkas.  I tell him that there is an open seat in the exit row and maybe he'd be more comfortable there.  But, I ask him, do you think you'll need a seatbelt extension?  Because they are not allowed in the exit row.  "So, are you calling me fat?" he asks, laughing.  Nope, I'm not...I'm simply asking about seatbelt extensions before you try to sit in the exit row.  So, and I swear to god it happened just this way, he grabbed a handful of that belly in both hands, jiggled that bad boy belly like Santa Claus, looked straight at me, and asked "So, do you think this is sexy?"  Oy vey.  I gotta get outta here.  Another cocktail for him. 

And he continued on about salaries and jobs and such -- wondering who was the bread winner in each of our families.  Cathy said she flies minimums and that her husband brings in more than she does.  (Seriously, are we really having this conversation with a perfect stranger ?)  I sort of skirt the issue and try to change the subject.  "I think I'll go and pick up trash," I say as I slither past his sturdy frame into the aisle.  I stand in First Class for a bit, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to clear out of the back galley.  I finally end up there again.  I sit down on my jumpseat and gather the Sunday morning paper with a cup of coffee.  He begins to sit down next to me....but I diverted that by telling him that nobody is allowed to sit on the flight attendant jumpseat.  "Oh, well maybe I can buy you a drink then....." as he turns to my coworker Cathy, pulls out that (previously declined) credit card and says to her, "Can I have a drink for myself and one for Arnie too?"  Oh lord god jesus and mary, I about evaporated.  She explained that we are not allowed to drink on the job.  And then he heads back into uncharted conversation territory with the questioning again about who is in my family and who the bread winner is.  I say that we both make about the same amount.  "We, who?" he wants to know....."Are you married?"   So, if you're willing to encourage that conversation with me, I'm more than willing to have it.  "Nope, I'm not married....they don't let the gays marry in this country," I tell him.  "I have a partner," I tell him.  "Oh, a dude partner?" he asks.  Yes siree, a genuine honest-to-goodness dude partner!  "Oh, I'm all cool with that," he continues.  Once again, I'm looking for a way out so I grab the aforementioned trash bag and head out leaving Cathy in the back galley (again) with him.

I stood in First Class for the longest time.  Waiting, watching, watching, waiting.  He returned to his seat and waved at me.  I waved back.  I finally ventured to the back galley and Cathy turned to me and said, "You'll never believe what he said about you....he said he thinks you are sexy." 
I blushed.

No Wonder Grandma Always Smelled So Good

You just never know how things are going to come together, or how the stars may just line up for you on any given day. Like when one sits down to write and express. I started to tell a coworker about my grandmother one day. We got to chatting about fancy air freshener sprays which reminded me of my grandmother. And that thought turned into another, and that one into yet another. And before I knew it, I had a whole sheet of ideas on my Grandmother.

Grandma and Grandpa moved from Ohio to Ontario, Oregon, around the tail end of the 1920s or 1930. My father was born in 1931 in Ontario. I know that Grandpa was an alcoholic and died of stomach cancer in 1965. Grandma went to work after that. For 90 cents an hour as an assistant at a nursing home. She retired 20 years later making $2.90 per hour. They lived in an old farm house on the outskirts of Ontario. Grandma tells me the story of getting herself all prettied up one day and walking into town to ask the businessman in town about the possibility of actually buying that house...for $4,000. With a single stove for heat. And they did buy it. That's where many of my early memories of Grandma took place. I remember her teeny tiny little black and white television with the rabbit ear antenna. And her black telephone up on the far south wall in the kitchen. I remember her telephone number to this day. I remember the day that the big old giant barn behind her house caught on fire thanks to my own father while he was just trying to burn down a few weeds near the barn. I remember all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins being piled into her small farmhouse kitchen eating on Sundays after church. Chicken and dumplings sticks in my mind for some reason. I remember the first time that my mom had to explain to me what a dumpling was. She never drove until after my Grandfather passed away. Then she bought herself a red Ford Comet that stayed with her until she drove no longer. She made her own clothes -- in fact, she had very few store-bought clothes. And it was all dresses, never trousers on Grandma....the church wouldn't approve. And she never wore jewelry except for her cameo necklace with Grandpa's picture in it and her wristwatch. The church wouldn't approve of jewelry. I would lay awake late at nights listening to a little black AM transistor radio -- KSRV was the station. I looked it up in the telephone book, found the address, and asked Grandma to drive me in the red Comet out to see where KSRV was located....to see where the little voices on the radio were coming from. I also asked her to drive me out to the Ontario airport so I could take a look. There was about as much there way back then as there is today.

And then she decided to leave the big farm house. She, my mom, and I went trailer shopping. They are called manufactured homes today. But this one was a trailer. A single wide. For $5,400. And she lived in that for many years and sold it for $5,200. I think that's where I remember bologna sandwiches on white potato bread (with butter for me, since I thought mayonnaise was the work of the devil just the same way I still believe today). And we'd wash it down with Cragmont cream soda from Safeway. Very often, I'd ride the Trailways bus from Boise to Ontario on Friday evenings. It would leave Boise at 5:30pm and arrive in Ontario at 7:30pm. And Grandma would be waiting for me, sitting in her car next to the Assembly of God church while the bus pulled in.

But the thing that got this whole piece started was when I was chatting with the coworker about good smelling air freshener sprays. Which reminded me of Grandma. You see, I would sneak into Grandma's bathroom when she lived in the trailer house and lock the door and start going through her medicine cabinet. And she had this pretty little can way up on the top shelf. I'd spray it in the air because it smelled good. And it should have. It was Grandma's F.D.S. spray.

If You Have But One Life to Lead, Why Not Live It As a Blond?

Tell me, are you a blond? Brunette? Are there intrinsic, appointed qualities, behaviors behind one's coloring? How about what a blond would wear? Or how they smell? Or what their bellybuttons look like. I'm at the tail end of My Lives by Edmund White when I came to page 294 and his expose on being blond:

"....Everyone in America liked blonds and wanted to be one. 'If you have but one life to lead, why not live it as a blond?' was a Clairol ad of the day. Blonde women were sexy and dumb; blond men were intelligent and masterful. Blonds had downy hair on their arms, a shock of cotton candy under each arm, skin that was poreless and smooth as old percale and rubbery with youth, cool feet and warm chests, beards that came in late and heads that went bald early. Even their balding was patrician. Blonds were rare, pure; their necks and foreheads burned and their arms became amber brown under a dust of gold shavings. They looked good in pink or pale green linen, faded blue denim, their tanned feet sockless and sinewy in old, high polished loafers. Blond men were tenors. They had no smell or only the smell of cold lake water. They inspired love, not lust. Their best look was classic, not contemporary. They looked good in camel's hair overcoats, blue blazers, frayed but expensive old Oxford shirts, machine-washed sneakers, an inherited gold signet ring. They should never wear Speedo's, just baggy old swimsuits. Their bellybuttons, optimally, were outies as neat as a child's ear. Their lips should be slightly chapped, sore and pink and unkissable. They should dance badly, self-consciously and seldom. Their bodies should look better in clothes than out of them. During long periods they should not follow the conversation. They are idols and should accept it. An idol doesn't converse...."

Wow. I had no idea. But then again, I'm not blond.

The Jesus People

Well, now that I'm on a roll about exciting, entertaining passengers I may as well toss you another bone of laughter from my recent travels.

You remember the Jesus People....right? I do. They were alive and well during my early, formative church years. Well, don't tell anyone, but I think I saw them today. In a new, fresh updated style for the year 2011. They appeared in rows 16, 17 and 18 headed to the rich, white, Republican land of Orange County. Perhaps that will explain the entire story that I'm about to tell you. And you already know how I feel about that sterile mecca. Scattered about the rows like the violent storm on the Sea of Galilee. Daddy, Mommy, the Nanny and six little kiddies. Well, there was actually a seventh child at home which I found out via an overheard conversation. Seven children. For god's sake. I immediately thought Mormon or Catholic. But I don't think it was either. I'm thinking big evangelical church. A happy-go-lucky sort of compound where there are giant screens to put the words to the hymns on along with a praise band and fancy wireless Madonna-style microphones on the pastors.

Daddy caught my eye. Perhaps it was the intense butchness of his persona that attracted me. Or perhaps it was his closely-trimmed beard with just an edge of gingerish red to it. Or perhaps it was the look that I've seen from straight men in the past when they are ushered into that uncomfortable lair of whirled up, rainbow-colored gayness. The look of "Are you gay?" The look of "Don't you even think of coming near my children." You know, trying to read me. Harsh, cold and rigid. But I think that the dead giveaway that they were the Jesus People reincarnated was their set of matching t-shirts. Each one had them. Bright, pretty sky blue in color. With their last name in large letters across the shoulders and a scripture below that: "But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

Oh boy, the cameras were flashing pictures of one another; the kiddies were running around like the Disciples when Jesus entered the room. Coloring books, crayons, iPods, Hello Kitty backpacks. And Bibles. Oh yeah, Mommy was reading one. She probably needed to with seven children. I know I would. And, you know, they were not much more than 40 or 45. With seven tax deductions! I'm estimating an annual tax savings of about $7,000 ($1,000 per child) for the little rugrats. Maybe I'll start having children.

And there was what I originally thought was the oldest child. A girl. Maybe 18 or 20, pretty, blonde, and clearly removed, distant, from the rest of the family. Headphones on. Singing the words to our airline's boarding music.....Drops of Jupiter by Train. Cool song. But for a church girl? Maybe that's the way they do things nowadays. But when I was in church, there was no crossover between the spiritual and the secular. There is no way we'd be singing a song of the devil. And then she stands up and it all becomes clear when I see the "Super Nanny" distinction blazoned across her back with the scripture following. She's the nanny in this family overrun with children. No wonder she had her headphones on.

Amen and Praise the Lord.

Twinkie

It is no surprise that my life is filled with an intimate, up close look at a wide variety of people. Young, old, abled and not, positive and horrible, in a wide variety of colors. I see it all. I hear it all. And I'm at the point in my life where I giggle, laugh and make fun of most of it. It's either that or explode in a violent frenzy of beer drinking and escape slide usage.

Change of subject for a second -- I love t-shirts. I'd almost call it a fetish but that conjures up visions of other things so we'll just call it a strong like (as Facebook would call it). I always look at t-shirts most anyplace we go. And I've been eyeballing this particular line of shirts at Target for quite some time now. But I'm also trying to be more prudent about my discretionary spending so I've chosen not to buy it. And now I know why. Two afternoons headed toward Austin, Texas, I was my typical cheery, smiling self saying "Hi There" to those coming through the forward L-1 boarding door. When lo and behold, I was taken aback. And that doesn't happen often with me. Here she came with MY t-shirt. The one I want!

Do you see the Twinkie in this picture? The picture right here? You see it....right? Well, imagine it stretched tight across the chest of a very large overweight woman (I swear she had to be from Portland.....). Yes sir, that little sponge cake with the sweet chemical filling was nestled in between the floundering breasts of this smiling, happy woman. "Hi there," she said to me as I'm aghast and staring uncontrollably at her titties. It reminded me of Oregon's Three Sisters mountains. I typically would strike up a conversation with people about their t-shirts, watches, glasses, handbags, whatever. But that day, in that situation, I was caught without words. Well, I did have a few, come to think of it. But they were not appropriate for the forward galley on a Boeing 737-800 bound for Austin within earshot of the First Class section. I'm sure that my head was moving from left to right in a reading sort of fashion as I went from Tit 1 to Twinkie to Tit 2. Lord, I will never see that t-shirt the same. No matter who it's on. Oh, and it is what's on the inside that counts, don't 'cha know.

Hump Day Happenings

It's back! My sinus infection, that is. I was out of work for a week or more, went back to the friendly skies, and now it appears to have returned. I honestly thought I was over it. I'm a die-hard fan of my NeilMed Sinus Flushing System. Amazing how good it feels to actually remove the crud from the inside of one's sinuses. In all seriousness, if you're not using it, you should be -- anybody with allergies, colds, sinus issues and the like will find great relief.

Conversion Disorder. Anybody have personal experience?

I ask a row of passengers the other day what they'd like to drink. I do that regularly, you know. And the lady tells me that she's going to have an orange juice and her husband (who is not in his seat at the time) will have nothing "because he's been a very naughty boy." And the conversation ensues from there while I see her husband back behind our beverage trolley waiting patiently to get back to his seat after using the restroom. I'm listening to her tell me this story about him being naughty while I'm staring back to him behind our cart in the center aisle. Just looking around, totally unaware of what his wife has just told me. I wonder if it was true? And I wonder if it crossed his mind when I said to him, "And what does the naughty boy want to drink today?" He looked sort of innocent to me.

Mason has made yet another trip to the veterinarian. I swear, it's a very good thing that we're enrolled in Banfield's Wellness Program which equates to free office visits and a reduction in all other services and procedures. He's better now but over the weekend he was pacing around, uncomfortable, unable to rest, relax or sleep. We have done our best, you all know we have. We've changed foods, tried this, tried that. And now he's on this ultra-low-allergen dog food and absolutely no people food. Apparently small breed dogs, and even light-colored dogs, tend to have more allergy issues than others. He's better now but it seems to just keep happening. And he's such a good boy....it's hard to see him at the Vet. Trembling, staring at us, begging us to get him out of there.

And before I go, I'd just like to say that I'm thankful I've got more in the shorts than Howard Stern apparently has. I heard it with my own ears last night on the new Piers Morgan show......Stern tells Morgan that he's "Hung Like a Raisin." And I was wondering.

Jumpseat Therapy

I told her that perhaps I should go back to being a hetro and she and I could get married. "Umm hmm," was her reply. We've flown together for years. And, I must say, we all learn a lot from each other in what we call Jumpseat Therapy. That's what you learn, hear and experience when sitting ass-to-ass with a co-worker for every takeoff and landing. You hear about kids, school, holidays, marriages, sex, food, hotels, Bible lessons and the like. And, honestly, it's quite entertaining at times. Like today.

She tells me she's got a pooched out belly. And, lo and behold, that bad girl was poked out like she was about four months with child. She even lifted up her uniform vest for added effect and to make sure I could see her distended tummy. "Too much flax seed," she tells me. "I just knew I shouldn't have taken it before flying," she adds. I told her to go into the lavatory (I know, I know, they aren't called "lavatories" anywhere except on the airplane....) and get rid of whatever it was that was giving her that alien-like effect. Sort of like Sigourney Weaver with that Alien thing. "Maybe you should belch or go and pass gas," I professionally suggested....with my bitey personality begin to rear its head. "I've tried," she tells me...."I'm in bad shape." I honestly don't think that her blue polyester could have stretched out much further without the seams unraveling.

The girl is from Alabama. Nothing wrong with that. Except that it gives me fodder for giggles and fuel for the laughing fire. She and I can go at it for a bit.....feeding off of one another's comments and jokes. We've even been told that we should have our own TV show on Comedy Central. She tells me about her Momma and her family members who used to be in the Klan. And I tell her about my early childhood girlfriends who made me do naughty things to them and about my churchgoing days. She's amused.

And today she is clutching a bag. One of those orange plastic ones from the AT&T wireless store...you know, the kind that you bring home fancy new electronic devices in? That kind. She's grabbed that bag by the neck like a turkey headed for slaughter. It's her clutch, she says. I suggest, perhaps, that it's more a satchel or European Carry All. And we laugh. She continues on to tell me that it is, indeed, her purse. That another flight attendant actually talked her out of her purse -- he (yes, HE) told her that it would be perfect for taking to his soccer matches. So, she gave it to him. Yes siree, she actually gave him her purse. And now she's stuck with this wadded up orange ball of plastic with all of her worldly belongings in it. She toted that thing from the lavatory to the galley and back about 62 times today. All the while strangulating it by the neck. I wonder if it had contraband in it? Probably just some mad money, a chicken leg, and a spare tampon.

We had to sit down for quite a while today. Lots of turbulence and the Captain requested that we sit. Which left us plenty of time for reading, giggling, and making fun of passengers. Yep, we do. Well, I do, anyway. So, I'm enjoying my memoir of some distant gay guy author type when, just out of the corner of my eye......I spot something. The words "Fatal Attraction" are staring me in the face. She's holding up a copy of National Geographic or some other magazine with an article titled Fatal Attraction. Oh god, it's beginning to feel like the movie....with the rabbit and pot of boiling water. And then she fans through the magazine pages with all sorts of phallic pictures and artistic sorts of work. And some other scary pictures of a plant eating bugs.

That belly never did release its contents. It was just as far out at the end of our trip as it was to start. I suggested Gas X or something. And then I told her how nice it was to fly with her again. And we agreed that it was nice to be together after a holiday. And that reminded me of an old church song....."We're together again, just praisin' the Lord.....we're together again, in one accord....something good is about to happen, something good is in store.....we're together again ..... just praisin' the Lord." So, I sang it to her. Out loud. On the jumpseat. And with that, our day ended. Well, after the laughing died down. It's all in a day's work, really. I hope she gets rid of that horrible plastic AT&T bag by the next time I see her. And her gas. The gas has got to go.

Christmas Celebrations

The whites are in the LG washing machine and will then be in the LG dryer which sits atop the washer. Who knew that dryers were tops. LoverBoy is in Honolulu and will be home via a tailwind tonight. I attended our former neighbor's Irish Coffee Christmas celebration last night for the first time in years by myself -- because the warm sands of Waikiki were more important to Hubby than partying with me. And perhaps it was the homemade eggnog with vodka (or the liquor-laden punch prior to the eggnog) that led me into a rather amorous conversation with a straight man about his biceps while his beautiful wife was at the other end of the bar telling me how young I looked and complimenting me on my bone structure all the while her breasts were doing their best to unleash the cage door and set themselves free from her pretty holiday dress. Oy. It was a nice evening.

Today I'm getting the sheets all washed up for C.S.N. We both get totally turned on by clean sheets. It's been a month today since my MIL passed away. And at the urging of my friend Blobby, I've just spent a few minutes downloading Apple's new free "Find My iPhone" app -- it used to be a pay service part of MobileMe. But now that piece of it is free. You can actually lock up the phone or wipe its data remotely if the phone is lost or stolen.

I'm continuing to fine tune my Re-Commitment to My Own Life which has been in formulation for many months now. I'm really excited to be putting my best foot forward on making sure my life is happening the way I'd like for it to be. But right now I need to go grab a piece of toast with chunky peanut butter and seedless blackberry jam. And some orange juice too. I've been up for three hours and need something on my tummy.

Teri or Terri

Teri. Or was it Terri? I just can't quite remember. Teresa was her full name but she went by Teri. She was 18, I was 15.....which puts this story at about 1977 or so. And it puts me at illegal. In Boise, Idaho, while Teri and I were both attending Boise Valley Christian Communion....a big church of more than 1,000 that met in a warehouse on the banks of the Boise River. It was filled with the spirit, the church was. Teri was my girlfriend. Well, more of a friend who was a girl than an actual, per se, girlfriend. She scared me too much. Actually all girls scared me too much, now that I think about it. Teri and I were in the youth group together despite the fact that she was a high school senior and graduating already. She had a full-time job and a real, honest to goodness Fiat that was her very own to drive around town. She delivered Meals on Wheels each afternoon to shut-in seniors who needed food. She wore these big old giant glasses that seemed to cover half of her face...the lenses tinted in a lovely shade of purple, blue, or periwinkle. She lived with her mother who also went to our church in a single-wide trailer. Oh, I know I'm supposed to say "Mobile Home" or "Manufactured Home" or something else like that. But, honestly, in the 1970's in Idaho they were trailers. Alright? Seriously.

Teri was the first chick that I, um....ahem.....** clears throat loudly ** .....well, you fill in the blanks here. I'm just too embarrassed to say. She was the one. In the afternoons while her mother was at work. In Teri's big waterbed. In The Trailer! In the Trailer Park! Oh god, this doesn't sound good, does it? It wasn't. You see, Teri was, shall we say, aggressive. Forceful. Demanding. Of me. Remember, she was the first (and practically the only, quite frankly). I swear to god, that girl made me do things I wasn't not prepared to do. Forced my head here and there. Told me out loud and naughtily what to do, how to do it, and how not to do it. She scared the living hell out of me. And we're not talking about normal, run-of-the-mill things here. Some. But some not. I still lay awake nights sweating thinking of her telling me to do it this way or that way. Perhaps I should have been a bit more educated after sneaking peeks at The Joy of Sex while I babysat over at my cousin's house -- but I just wasn't. And so this went on. In the trailer, in the afternoons. And if that didn't work, she'd drive me around behind some school house after dark to perform The Act.

At, or near, the time Teri was graduating from high school, she decided to go into the military. The Army. And also along about that time, she called me one day and asked me to come over to The Trailer for the afternoon. Unable to say no, I drove my 1970 Plymouth Gold Duster with its black plastic seats over. I jumped out of the car and headed up the sidewalk toward her front door. The door was open, the glass screen was pulled shut, so that I could see right straight into the house....to the couch (or "Davenport" as we called it growing up for some reason) on the far wall where Teri was sitting. In her purple glasses. And with her arm draped around the manly shoulders of another woman. "I'm in love with this woman. She is my girlfriend," she tells me. "And I'm going into the Army," she continued. Oy vey.

Teri went into the Army. She ended up at Fort Riley, Kansas, for some time. And she went on to marry a man. A black man. I think they had babies. And I don't know another damned thing except for that. Well, that, plus the fact that her mom tried to get me into Amway shortly after that. I wonder where those purple glasses are now? And that damned water bed.

Colorful Language

Irvington Village Assisted Living, Portland, Oregon -- We enter via the main doors, the place is crowded with typical lunchtime hubbub. People in wheelchairs floating up and down the halls, walkers, canes, a million things going on. And the lunchroom is filled with people. Maybe 100 or so around tables for 8 or 10. Irvington Village is located along MLK in Northeast Portland -- one of Portland's more African-American neighborhoods. So, all of that to say that this place is filled with a lot of African-American people. We were there on a quick visit to check it out for my Mother in Law. (She has since decided on another place.)

I dart into the restroom, unzip, ppeeeesssstttt, and in the middle of this whole gig, I hear yelling outside somewhere in the hallway. I can't quite make it out. It is muffled And these sort of facilities are known for a wide variety of people with an equally wide variety of physical, mental and emotional issues going on. You just never know what's going to happen next. You see, this was last Friday -- the beginning of Yom Kippur. So, I'm hunkered down with my pants undone in an ethnic neighborhood at the beginning of a Jewish holiday with all sorts of nut jobs in the building and my nuts hanging out. Why was I there? Why!

I venture out into the hallway, and can see through the glass windows into the lunch room. A man is at the microphone reading something Jewish, celebratory, historical, pleasant, enjoyable. Lo and behold, from the far other side of the room, this old Black man is pushing himself up from the table. He's dressed in a blue and white robe sort of thing, with big 4" wide blue and white stripes on it. He's wearing a hat and giant sunglasses. And he's irritated. I was really quick on identifying his emotion. Yikes. And he's headed toward me......I was in the doorway. And his blessed little potty mouth was uttering some combination of the following words and phrases:

"Mother f***ing Jews, I don't give a god da*mned flying f**k what holiday it is those son of a bi**ches had better watch out. I don't have to sit here and listen to this f**king Jewish s**t...."

Shall I go on? He was yelling it. And headed toward me. I moved to the far side of the hallway. To a table filled with literature -- little brochures and pretty things to occupy me while he passed behind me. Shall we say that MIL is not going to be living at this property. And not because she's not Black or Jewish. It's because she's a woman of high refine -- and her ears could never take the filthy language.

Flight Attendant Fantasies

My early morning banterings on Facebook have been a bit of a walk down memory lane for me and my buddy Johnny. He and I were flight attendants back at our very first airline in Boise in 1995 or so. We thought we were hot stuff, believe me. Making less than a thousand dollars a month and wearing polyester will make you feel that way.

Seattle was inundated with a particular snowstorm one winter -- between Christmas and New Year's. Nothing went anywhere for days. Finally, at the end of the third day, Johnny and I were the flight attendants on the very first flight to Seattle in three days. Yay! But you see the problem was this -- that we ended up in a million feet of snow in Seattle and couldn't get out of Seattle to come back to Boise. It was piled up to the nose of the Fokker F-28 (like the one in the picture above only with way more snow piled up to its wings and nose). We were flying with two extremely hot pilots (who Johnny and I both had the secret HOTS for....shh, don't tell anybody). Our captain called operations, dispatch, airport people, airline people, and the Pope himself in order to get us towed down to the Delta Airlines hanger at the south end of the SeaTac Airport. They towed us into this big, huge giant hanger all by ourselves......to thaw. To melt. The ice was so thick on the plane. But somewhere in the midst of this deal, we came up with the idea to use these big, giant squeegee sort of things with rubber on them to try and pull the snow and ice off of the aircraft to speed up the thaw process.

All I remember is Johnny and me....on the wings of the F-28 in our uniforms and (required) black penny loafers. Seriously, standing on the wings in the snow with these huge squeegee things.....pulling and pushing snow and ice onto the ground. It was so slick! We worked up a huge sweat along with the two (hot) pilots. We must have been at this for several hours. We would reach up from the wing up as far as we could on our tip-toes to drag the snow down from the fuselage of the airplane. At the end of this ordeal, our captain called and told operations that we were ready to be towed back for our flight back to Boise. "Oh no," they told us, "there are no flights operating tonight...you're stuck here for the night." But Young Handsome Captain Man would have nothing to do with it. He talked, he coerced, he chatted, he arranged -- for the four of us to actually work the very first flight out of Seattle back to Boise in three days. The airline had not been accepting any checked bags from passengers for days. Every passenger trudged out from the terminal in many feet of snow with their checked baggage. They stacked up a hundred or more bags by the front stairs in the snow. Somehow, we had rampers (the guys who do all of the millions of thankless chores on the ground) load those wet bags into the belly of our F-28.....and away we went. Hours and hours late and well after midnight.

Johnny and I both remarked this morning that we are pretty sure no flight attendants in history have participated in such a stunt before. Just us. In our penny loafers. With the hot pilots.

Why I'm Gay

I've always wondered. Contemplated. Speculated. Thought. About why I'm gay. And now I know. I can blame is squarely on Blanche, Dorothy, Sophia and Rose. The Golden Girls made me gay:

• Blanche’s promiscuity is a common model for the personal lives of today’s homosexuals. Most gay relationships last a week.
• She taught our modern butt rompers to disparage everyone in their orbit. Dorothy taught the gays to speak very fast and have the most superior attitude possible.
• For Florida, The Golden Girls completely ruined the reality of Miami’s masculine reputation. It was no longer a city of Scarface and Miami Vice.

Check out the article. You'll laugh....at the show, and at yourself. And at the writer. This is the kind of crap that 2010 Christianity in the United States is scaring people with. I've said it for many years -- if the church would actually look on the INside of its four walls, there would be serious trouble. Instead, they continue to choose to look OUTside....blaming others, casting attention outside to avoid the inward focus. I spent the vast majority of my life inside of the church. It hasn't been right for centuries. And it still isn't right today. But at least articles like this continue to give us giggles and laughs. As they should. And, do you suppose, just possibly, that it really was Blanche and Dorothy that made me gay?

An Odd Lot

We are an odd lot, I must say. Fairly pleasant, but odd. We are a conglomeration of so many strange sorts that its hard to put a finger on it sometimes. Bohemians. Alternatives. Grunge. High-tech polo shirt wearers with little names on the breast. Long-haired hippies, both current trendy ones and those leftover from the Vietnam era. We smoke pot. Plenty of us live on the streets either by choice or by default. More than our fair share are overweight, drive mini vans and park in spots reserved for the handicapped. We are filled with lesbians and gays on nearly every street. We drive Subarus and hybrids and Smart Cars. And beat up pickup trucks too. Our east and west suburbs shop at Wal Mart while our inner city urban group snubs their noses at chain stores whatsoever (and that includes me). We are activists and are not afraid to say "No" to government or big business. We are boarders and skaters and used-clothing advocates and we carry our own grocery bags to the store for use. Oh, and one more thing....

We are checked out. Oblivious. Out of it. We ride bikes in traffic when we should not and expect that motor vehicles will actually pay attention and see us -- we demand our bike rights! We pay no attention to bicycle riders when we should be -- by god, they get enough attention! We push oversized strollers right down the middle of sidewalks and expect others to clear out of our way. We take our dogs to places when we should not because we don't think or care. Children are allowed to play wherever they want -- certainly they must be given a voice at age six months...right? We sit at four-way intersections....waiting, waiting, waiting....while everybody tries to be nice and let the other guy go. Meanwhile, nobody goes and traffic builds up. "No, you go....seriously, you go first...." Turn right on a red light after stopping first? Maybe. If we remember that it's okay to do. As for left-hand turns, we wait WAY back behind the line....instead of pulling out into the intersection to the actual point of the turn.....scared, waiting, nervous, not paying any attention. And then the light turns red and its time for our turn and......nothing happens. Nobody gets to go. And I honk my horn, because I have one and I like to use it. It sort of jars people. It sometimes gets me the finger. But most of the time I see the head in the car in front of me sort of glance around, in the mirror maybe, like "Are you talking to me?" We don't get it. It's like we're high on crack or something. Like LSD was our best friend in the 1960s. Our sense of our surroundings has been dulled. We just aren't aware. Maybe its all of the rain and gray skies. Who knows.

I followed a mother on her bicycle the other night. She in the middle of the road with her child on the back of the bike. Looking around, at people, at gardens and homes. And me....directly behind her, with cars piled up behind me. And she is not the exception to the rule.

You've just got to love Portland. Eclectic. Strange. Slow. Weird. We've got it all. We're slow...but we've got it all.

The Strangeness That Is My People

We're an unusual group of people. Seriously, we are...and you know it. Specifically, at this particular blip of time, I'm referring kindly to my own kind. My own profession. We're odd. That can't be denied. Not odd as in strange. Well, now that I'm thinking about it, maybe I do mean strange. Yeah, I do. A little strange. I've been in this profession for 15 years. An Air Hostess. Trolley dolly. Stewardess. Stewardette (yep, I've been called that). Air Mattress. Steward. Flight Attendant. A nearly-all kind group of people. And some of the world's greatest friends. But strange. Odd. Weird. And I'm not sure what it is.

With any profession or group of people, there are typically common bonds that tie them together. They were all hired with certain skill sets or abilities. They possess particular traits or perhaps their personalities fit in well with the job which they are doing. Flight attendants are required to be prompt, never late...it's not tolerated. They are supposed to look good and take care of themselves. They are required to go through a horribly intensive five-week training school -- studying every single night, written tests nearly every day, tons of practical drills like fire fighting, emergency evacuations, and safety skills. They need to know how to problem solve, to calm, to bring tense situations to an even playing field. And, occasionally, they need to slap the you-know-what outta some total dweeb. But beyond all of the written, company-required job skills, there appears to be an unwritten, perhaps unknown or little understood, set of behaviors that creep among our type.

We chat. We love to chat and, more accurately, blather. Blather on and on, many times about nothing. You ask a simple question and you're there for, oh say, a day and a half or so getting the Wikipedia answer when all you really needed to know was what gate we were arriving at. Or maybe I feel obligated to ask about someone's husband or wife and I get the whole nine yards including the latest in therapy sessions and family drivel.

Many of we stews are on drugs. Not the good stuff. The stuff to calm us down. Pacify us. Make us able to get through the day. Happy pills. And we love our alcohol too. Numerous of my friends drink heavily. A few uncontrolled. Most just plenty. We go to therapists. We have far too numerous physical aches and pains to outline here -- many caused by our required lifting of overly heavy passenger bags, and all of the lifting, bending, stretching and twisting that goes along with 200-pound beverage carts. We go to acupuncturists. We go to psychiatrists. We go to the pharmacy regularly. We like our druggists.

We like attention because many of us don't get it elsewhere. We're a gaggle of misfits, many divorced or in unhealthy relationships. We're not at home enough for some. We're home far too much for others. Many mothers and fathers use their layover time to chill....."Me" time.... to get away from the kids and partners back at home. And some of us, just an extreme few thankfully, like to exert their ill-placed need to use authority at times -- "I told you to put that seatbelt down low and tight near your private parts!" or "If I have to ask you one more time to turn off that brand new iPhone 4, I'm a gunna shove it up to just about your hairy nipple line!" That sort of thing. And in spite of having a six-inch-thick company approved way of doing things, we are widely known for having an even better way to do it. Just ask us, we'll show you. We have little hangups like which side of the cart we have to have the juice cartons on, where the little stir sticks should be placed (I've got just the place, believe me....), or the need for placing those little pretzel snacks in the drawer with precise latitude and longitude markers aligned with GPS precision. We aren't well, I'm telling you.

Just this morning, I was on a crowded employee bus going from the employee parking lot to the airport terminal. We do it every day. We know each other. We do it over and over and over -- many of us for years now. For me, my day typically puts me on that bus between 4:30am-5:30am. It's early. It's dark much of the year. And most of the bus is eerily quiet. Except for the flight attendants. They banter back and forth. Loudly. While the make up is applied, or the bags are being dug through, or they try and decide if the new uniform is going to make their arse look big, or which restaurant they'll be going to that night in Puerto Vallarta. And people stare at them. Including me. I like that time for myself, for peace and quiet before what is always a busy day. But, honestly, it's like you put in a nickle and get back a quarter's worth. So, yeah, back to this morning -- I looked at the gal sitting next to me and remarked "Gawd, can't you just feel the oxygen being depleted in this bus." She concurred. How could she not?

But in spite of our weirdness, we're one hell of a fun-loving group. We like to have fun, party, eat dinner or happy hour together, and take walks together. Many of us include our co-workers in our list of good friends, including me. We text each other, see each other outside work, and do our best to take care of one another when necessary. And we even travel together on our days off. I'm not sure precisely what it is that lends us to being a bit of an odd group. Whatever it is, I think I'll gladly be a part of it for quite some time. Until the blue polyester pales, the shoes are worn from being on my feet all day, and the shiny wings on my uniform are tarnished. It's a good group of folks....in spite of their strangeness.