To start off, I set up a blog account to be able to comment on a certain friend's posts. I think it had something to do with coupons. I digress... Anywho, fast-forward a few years later, I still have this blog account and I think "hm, maybe I should keep this. funny schmack happens to me on my airplanes all the time. and who doesn't like to read about stupid/funny/insane airplane passengers?" So I keep the blog, but don't write in it. And then I have shoulder surgery and go out on medical for 6 months. Who wants to hear about a whiny shut-in who can't drive for several months? You don't? Oh, well I didn't want to tell you anyway.
And now, it is today. I am sitting in a hotel room (the kind with a mini fridge and microwave - a lunchbox-toting flight attendant's wet dream) preparing to return to training tomorrow. And even thought I feel like its my first day of school and I'm naked and I forgot my homework and farted in class all at the same time (super-amplified feelings of fear for Requalification Training) I'm also starting to get those little old tinglies. No. Not those tinglies. You pervert. I mean those excited love/hate tinglies that always accompany my job. The tinglies that keep me coming back, even when I think about a career-change and talk about it ceaselessly (nevermind that this is the PERFECT job for a milspouse to hold.) The tinglies that make me wake up at 0345, put on a 3-day old polyester dress that's so nasty it could stand up on its own and go to work for me, roll on a pair of pantyhose so dirty they practically give me the PigPen dust cloud when I walk and black pumps that should probably be incinerated when I stop trying to get another month of service out of them by coloring in the boo-boos with a black Sharpie. I think I missed work. And god, I hope I don't screw the pooch in Jet Requal these next few days...
So, that long-worded tangent was my way of saying "well, since i'm starting all over again, i should finally start blogging." And so I am. Bam.
Who am I? (And why the heck are you reading my blog?! Do I know you??) I'm a 20-something FA (that's flight attendant for you airline newbies) for a major airline. I will never divulge the identity of my employer because simply put, I don't want to be like so many other blog venting professionals who said the wrong thing (or posted the wrong pictures...) and ended up summarily canned by their parent company. Well, I can tell you I don't work for Southwest, because if I did, I would have hilarious stories like they were going out of style. (Bless those amazing flight attendants for dealing with the folks they deal with and still being rockstars!) But I do jumpseat on them to get to work from time to time, so I'll pass along my tidbits of hilarity as I stumble across them. I'm also a military spouse, trying to make my wants/needs/desires somehow be in harmony with the US Navy's wants/needs/desires/demands for my husband and our life. Right now, being a FA seems to be the most compatible career choice for our lifestyle so, I am what I am.
When I'm not 32,000 feet in the air serving as a whipping girl for maladjusted adults who act like toddlers on crack, I attempt to be a badass runner and swimmer. Really. There's a BAMF Runner inside of me who occasionally comes out to play but is usually beaten and maimed by the cranky *Slam-Clicker inside of me who just wants to get to Sacramento, order room service and worship NetFlix. In my attempt to be more worthy of my subscription to Runner's World, I try to be inspired by other awesome bloggers who have reached the point. You know, those people who are truly BAMF and kick butt. I'll dip my feet into the marathon waters this October when I run the MCM, so we'll see how that goes. And swimming is just my happy place. No sounds, no worries - just you and the black line.
*(a Slam-Clicker is someone who gets to the layover and is a total wet blanket. You walk up to the rooms turn to invite them to dinner and suddenly... "g'night!" Slam! CLICK!)
Speaking of happy places, my hubs rocks. If I could, I would stay at home all day in our cozy house on the river surrounded by my two fur-babies puttering around with Flyboy. You know when you're so happy with someone that you could be planting perennials and cleaning out the closet and you still feel like its the best thing ever? Yeah, that's how I feel. Flyboy puts up with my constant bitching about my job, listens to my crazy stories, allows me to Princess Park (basically be chauffeured to the airport by your hubs instead of driving), occasionally drives me to the airport/train station at god-awful hours (think 2am) and otherwise talks me down from the ledge when I've had "one of those days". The hubs works for Uncle Sam and does things involving aviation and such. Because of his job, he's completely understanding of mine (i.e. the hours, unpredictability and general mayhem). Flyboy is an amazing race spectator, fixer of all things and has the best laugh. Ever.
Should you ever somehow come across me in the commissary or stumble onto my airplane, even with a close pictorial analysis, I don't think you'll link me with this blog. In general, I love humanity and believe in the goodness of people. I see amazing random acts of kindness in my day-to-day activities. But I also see amazing acts of super-douchieness and it tends to wear on me. This is my inner monologue. And while I'm a reasonably sane and balanced 20-something female, my inner monologue tends to be a little more acerbic and a hell of a lot less polite than my outer-self. Because even though I'm all sunny smiles and Pollyanna while you're yelling at me for personally causing this weather delay, I'm secretly calling you an asshat in my head. In four different languages. But you'd never know. That's right. P-P-P-Pokerface-P-P-Pokerface (nahnahnahnaaahhh.)
This is me. I'm here, I'm queer - oops, nope. Lemme try this again... here I am, for better or worse. If you don't like what I say then just don't read it. Thanks for stopping by and don't forget to fasten your seat belts when the seat belt sign is illuminated. Buh-bye now!