Princette

Okay, it's Saturday afternoon, and I have kids. So, I go against the odds, and decide to go have a pedicure with a 7 and 8 year old in tow. Surprisingly, they are angelic, and I am ecstatic, enlightened, you name it, I am so happy! Then we go to the mall, and I buy a couple of tee-shirts to wear to my Mom's in Arkansas, and pushing my luck, I decide to go to Target for some staples, and a pair of thongs. Shoe thongs, you perverts, what else?

That song, "Toxic" by no one else than Britney Spears is playing, and my 7 year old is talking about sexy women. I decide right there and then to tell both of them what sex means. Mind you, I also decide to pluck the hair off both my big toes with my fingers. The pain of this somewhat dulls what I am thinking and saying. So, I explain the penis and vagina meeting up, the sperm, the egg, and pregnancy. They both fall out in the back of the car, laughing and carrying on. But I am determined. I have the SEX TALK, which I don't remember my mother ever having with me, well, kind of... I grew up in the country, and we had dogs, and the best thing I remember about finding out how sex worked was the male dog was humping the female, and I locked them both in our horse trailer to see what would happen. Well, they got "tied up" and I tried to get them apart, but that wasn't happening, so I just watched from the side of the trailer. It was really cool, in a gross, fantastic sort of way, and I realized what was going on at that time. I will never forget that as long as I live, who ever forgets their first knowledge of sex? I don't remember how old I was, but I guarantee I was much older than both of my sons.

It is sort of sad if you think about it, they now know what sex is, but still believe in Santa Claus. As Prince would say, I guess it's a sign of the times. I honestly think the demise of Santa will be harder to explain than sex. Go figure.

Just mopped the floor, and folded the 5th load of laundry. All in panties and a tank top. White cotton, mind you. I hate being domestic, but if I don't do it, who will?

I have my radio tuned into 109.1, having been advised that this is an all Prince weekend. So far, I have heard Gwen Stefani, Madonna, and Natalie Merchant. Shit. I guess I have to go back to Emancipation and just CD the rest of the day away. I hear that Madonna is contemplating another tour. Well, thank God for that, because we have all missed her nasty ass, huh?

I have hair on my toes. Does anyone else have this problem? I don't know whether to pluck or shave. I really need a pedicure, but after two years of not having one, I am too embarrassed. They are really funky, I think the cuticle on my smallest pinky toe has overgrown the toenail itself. Thank God for Doc Maarten's. No NG kitten heels for me, not sure about Callipes, but I imagine my toes would be exposed.

I wish I had Johnny Depp's home phone number. I wish I had hairless, pedicured toes. I wish I had a babysitter. I wish I had dogs that didn't feel the need to mark their territory after ALL this time. I wish I had a Camaro SS, midnight blue. I wish I had another gallon of Seagram's vanilla vodka. I wish I had some paper towels. I wish I had access to NG's closet.

The bathroom beckons. I wonder if CLR would take the hair off my toes?

I just realized there are toenails in my ashtray. As my cigarette was resting its tired little body, I noticed a strange aroma coming forth. I look over and see roasting toenails. Large ones.

All of you single girls out there fighting the valiant fight of singledom versus relationship, please remember this. Sometimes it's nice to be alone.

So I hear on Kiss FM today a story about a lady that called 911 on her cell phone while being kidnapped and locked in the trunk of a car with another woman. Blue saturn, license plate VMW..., or VWM... and you think you're having a shitty day.

I have so much to do today, and I am just sitting here blogging away. Southwestern Bell is on my shit list right now. I hate those assholes. Long story, not very entertaining, I will spare everyone the gory details.

My oldest son, the floor pisser, has a science project due tomorrow. Which means, in no uncertain terms, that yours truly has a science project due tomorrow. I truly hate school. That's why I dropped out of college and became a flight attendant. And now, it is all returning to haunt me. Math, science, spelling, book reports, the list goes on and on. The current project is: make a chart/graph on posterboard labeling the three resources of ROCKS, PLANTS, and WATER. Then cut out or draw (ha!) pictures showing how we humanoids utilize these resources. Well, neither Glamour or Instyle magazine have much to offer. I guess I could cut out ads for David Yurman, (ROCKS) Gucci,( jungle PLANTS scene with naked, anorexic woman wearing kick-ass shoes looking like she wants to (a) vomit or (b) fuck a monkey) And those slimy, orgy versed Versace ads where everyone is sweaty and look like they need a drink of... WATER. Yes, that may be how all of this goes down.

I remember a long time ago, I had a project due in Girl Scouts, it was some type of poster. Well, of course my mother did the entire thing, and I ended up winning an award for it. Why anyone would think that an 8 year old is capable of doing this shit is beyond me. So, I guess the ball has been passed and another generation has come. Sometimes I don't feel like an adult, much less the ONE that HAS to do the projects now. I guess I have grown up. Shit. I had no idea how nice it was to be young, free, and irresponsible. I miss those days of coming home from school, and having dinner served to me, taking a bath and homework, nothing more, nothing less. No SWBT that I was aware of, no doctor's appointments to make, no errands to run, just plain and simple small town country upbringing, riding horses, playing in the barn, baton twirling, having my clothes for the next day laid out for me, having my mom brush my hair and curl it, no financial worries, no vehicle registration, no laundry, no cleaning house. Okay, I was spoiled as a child, but I sure do miss those days. They are gone forever. I am the adult now, with responsibilities, deadlines, science projects, and bread to buy. And I will carry on.

So this woman gets on the plane today. Dallas to Oklahoma City. She's probably a little under 6 feet tall, older, (not elderly) and I see that she is having a conversation with the flight attendant in the first class galley. Well, I see her attention shift to me, as I am standing at the closet behind first class. And here she comes. She stops in front of me and says, " Can you help me with my bag? I can't lift it by myself." Standard response # 19; "I am so sorry you can't, but we're not allowed to lift passenger's bags. If you can't lift it yourself, then you will need to check it." She: " the girl up front told me you would help." This, I know is a lie, because said girl up front is even bitchier and more tired than I. So, instead of bothering more than I already have, I point out big, burly man in row 14 and tell her to ask him.

I once flew with a girl that told me this story. She said it was the end of a long day, and all the crew wanted was to get off the plane and go to their hotel room. A male passenger was frantically and unsuccessfully trying to unlodge his suitcase out of the overhead bin. He had crammed it in during boarding, and now could not seem to get it out. The flight attendant I speak of was so damn tired, she watched him for awhile, then finally said, "here, let me do it." She proceeded to climb up in one row of seats, and gave it several mighty pulls. Finally, the suitcase flew out of the overhead bin so suddenly that it pinned her to the overhead bin on the opposite side of the plane. It was very sudden, and she told me that she felt a searing pain in her neck that radiated down her back, but by God it was out, and on to the hotel they went. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and lay down. The next morning she stumbled out of bed, and passing by the bathroom mirror, she stopped short. The entire left side of her face was sagging horribly. She had broken her neck and not even realized it. And you know what American's response was? Well, you shouldn't have pulled it out. She was off work for six months with no pay.

So, please don't ask us to help you with your bag. We are not the ones that decided to pack the heavy, too big thing, and bring it on board. If you can't lift it yourself, or it won't fit into the overhead bin, then it ceases to be carry on luggage, and you need to check it.

All we are required to do is find you a place to stow the damn thing, not lift it ourselves.

I once had a grown man walk up to the aircraft door, tap me on the shoulder and point over his shoulder at a tote bag on the jetbridge. he said, "Can you take care of that for me?" "Sure I can." So I checked it to Portland. We were flying to Minneapolis. Bastard.


I do, however, make exceptions for elderly people and the unaccompanied children that fly with us. I'm not a total bitch.

Word to the wise, never dye your hair before a trip. I don't care what the picture on the box looks like, it is not the correct color. There is a disclaimer on the Loreal carton that says 'actual shades may vary.' Well, good for them. They should have one that says, "no matter what pleasing shade of irridescient nut brown this promises to be, please do not be alarmed if your hair turns; turquoise, magenta, or baby-shit brown. Corporate assholes.

Oh well, I don't know anyone at work. That is the best part of it all. They have no idea what my hair looked like yesterday, or the week before, or if I am bloated. Let them think I have eaten too many pretzels. I am SO past giving a shit. The 33% paycut I took last year pretty much summed it up for me. I think I will wear the rhinestone stud in my nose today, instead of the teeny, tiny silver anti-ball. I was told once by management that
"that's very UN- American." This was long ago and the subject was an upper ear piercing. Funny thing, passengers don't recoil in horror. They say, if anything, very positive things about my piercings, " I like your look" "Did that hurt?" "Way cool!" "Got any more that we can't see?" That, of course is my favorite. So American can either get with the times, or leave me alone. I am good at what I do, and I definitely don't need shit from their end.
What a lovely day! And I am headed for Tulsa. With fucked up nut brown (sort of) hair. Damn.

I like Mexicans. I really do. They are very well behaved. They say "gracias" for the smallest favor on the plane. I never hear, "what's for dinner?" or "Ya got any magazines/blankets/pillows/aspirin/band aids/playing cards/tampons/candy bars/mosquito spray/lip balm/a pen I can borrow/moisturizer/shoe polish/peanut butter? Well do ya? Huh huh?"

They are quiet, polite, and very self sufficient. They never ask for Diet Black Cherry Slice, Fresca, or Frappucinos. They ask for Coke or orange juice, usually with no ice (less work for me.) If they are really feeling frisky, they might ask for Sprite. None of that pompous, spoiled American 'what can you do for me'? bullshit. Just nice, well-dressed, happy, smiling, look out the window and leave me the fuck alone, kind of folks.

I think I should start bidding Mexico trips. I would be a lot more happy. And the duty free liquor is cheaper.

I have figured out the mystery pool of urine in the boy's bedroom. For the last two nights in a row, I have walked in and found a huge puddle snaking its way from under the desk on the side of their bunkbed where their desk is and coming to a tentative stop under the ladder. I have blamed my largest dog, Ollie, for this and thought he must have a huge bladder.

Something wasn't right, however, and I could not figure it out. This morning, it hit me. I calmly asked my 8 year old about it, and he confessed. Seems he gets enthralled in the video games so much, he has found it easier just to pee right there from his chair in front of the desk. That silly toilet is like at least 20 feet away, and the trip there might break his video trance.

Is that not the most disgusting thing you have ever heard? When asked, he says he gets it from his Daddy's side of the family. I'm most certain of this because I know them well.

This child came out of me, so there must be some blame on my part. Same DNA, but I have never pissed on the floor because I was too damn focused on something to go to the toilet. Think I will just start now. Blogging and pissing on the floor.

Going to work so I can get some rest!

I am so impressed by the literary genius of some folks. I guess it would make me seem more intelligent to be reading Melville, or all about Dante's fabulous descent into the Netherworld, but here I am reading a book I found on the plane called "The White Road" by John Connolly, and let me tell you boys and girls, it is damn good. I am on page 8, and can really feel that this will be a fascinating read.
Just finished "False Memory" by Dean Koontz. It was wonderful, I finished it in 3 days. I gave it to another flight attendant only when she agreed that Stephen King is a very nice substitute for God. She also commented on my Prince symbol/sign/pin that I am wearing at all times right now in honor of the sacred April 2nd concert date, even on my blue polyester uniform. I have my standards, believe me.

I can't get into books that are so heavy with journalistic prose and meaning that you have to reread the same paragraph over and over to ponder the full meaning. I don't have time to ponder. I have children. I am lucky to get a bath or shower in once a day, okay? Yes, I have Tolkien stacked up in the bookcase. I read Jane Eyre in high school. And Tolstoy. On Hawthorne, I was fascinated by the Red "A". I appreciate all of the masters, I just have no time for the heavy shit.

I love my fiction, take me away literary Calgon, take me the fuck away. Give me murder, mystery, seances, cars that come to life, dogs that go frothingly mad, and trees that have a death smell. That is what I need.

Maybe it's my job, no genius IQ required there. Although when I started my career at age 20, you had to have completed at least two years of college. Now you just have to have a full set of teeth. Well, almost. I just wanted out of the small town atmosphere and the dead end Community College. This was a cool job. I went to New York for a year, then transferred to Boston for two. I have seen a lot of the world, and have been paid to do it, I deal with different situations on a constant, evolving basis. No, it doesn't take a genius to do this job, but it does require a chameleon's sense of change and grace. I even know how to shock people when their heart stops, so there.

One of my old flight attendant girlfriends bought a book about Hitler .

Rise and Fall of the Third Reich: A History of Nazi Germany


She would read this on the plane so everyone would think she was really smart. She actually got about a fourth into the book before giving up. I have never done this, but I can see why someone would. Some professions promote and demand intelligence and respect, mine doesn't.

And I have no idea who Donnie Darko is.

What is up with all of this Spring Break nonsense? I never got to go anywhere on Spring Break. My parents never booked a flight for me to Ft. Lauderdale or Cancun, handed me spending money or a platinum credit card, knowing that I would be drinking myself silly and flashing my tits, perhaps even securing a spot on one of those "Girls Gone Wild" videos which my husband so adores.
For the second time, I will be working a flight bound for Cabo San Lucas full of college kids wearing Lacoste and Ralph Lauren (nothing but, it does look like that Abercrombie shit is on its way out) carrying loads of Louis Vuitton carry ons, going to party their thin, rich little arses off. I just don't get this. Was I not raised properly? Was I suppressed as a young adult? It is not the money that gets me riled, it's the sheer unknown that their parents are sending them off into (don't they know what little Cory and Kristen will be doing?) and the fact that they are financing the entire sex/booze fest. This generation has entirely too much power if you ask me.
The coolest thing that ever happened to me in high school was I got to tag along with a family of Mormons on their way to Mexico City, to check out their eldest son's new missionary position. It took 23 hours on a train to get us there, and there was no air conditioning on the train, or much of anywhere in that damn country. They don't even have ice there. I drank orange juice one morning (lots of it), and we went to check out the pyramids. We were on a bus with locals, crying babies, chickens, (I swear) and the heat, oh God the heat. I got nauseous and proceeded to projectile vomit OJ in the bus, on the pyramids, on my friends, anything in range was an unfortunate target. I still can't drink OJ to this day.
And I think this was honestly during Spring Break. I just wish I could have slipped off and exposed myself to someone. That would have made it even more perfect.