In a random series of events that demonstrated the occasional value of forgetfulness, I had an insightful and engaging conversation today with the pilot that flew our plane from Portland back to Spokane.
Unused to having a piece of carry-on luggage, I walked past the ala carte cart on the way into the terminal at PDX, without my bag. Once inside, J asked, "Where's your carry on?" Yikes! I usually only have a purse and laptop bag; a long stop-over in San Francisco with my generous aunt - "Take these sweaters! And boots! And here's a suitcase for it all!"- disrupted my normal travel flow, allowing me to zone out and walk right by my new carry-on.
I went back out onto the concourse - this was a small plane with tarmac deplaning- and there it was, all alone on the cart. As I pulled it down, the pilot exited the plane and we ended up walking back inside together.
As we were walking in step together, I started a conversation by thanking him for the flight. "It was a wonderful flight; thanks again," I said, or something along those lines.
He replied with an apology. "I'm sorry it was a little bumpy." (It wasn't. Pilots must be sensitive about these things). He continued, "The autopilot wasn't working (!!) so we weren't able to climb up to 35,000 feet like we normally do. We had to keep it lower at 20,000 feet."
I tried processing this information as quickly as possible and then try not to say something in reply that was stupid-sounding. I came out with a series of stuttered replies, "So then, okay, so, the auto pilot, it was off, that means then... that means you were flying, by your instruments?" I ended with a question at the end which I didn't want but was battling my complete and utter lack of pilot and plane knowledge with the desire not to sound stupid.
"No you're right," he replied graciously. "And amazingly, yes, we were asleep."
I thought this was incredibly hilarious and laughed quite hard. Asleep! Because the autopilot wasn't working! A pilot with humor!
So I continued, "I thought the flight was fantastic. I didn't feel anything at all and I really meant it when I said thank you." Now warming to the conversation with someone that liked to poke fun at themselves, I expanded and said, "Really, anyone that has a problem with a flight like that just shouldn't be flying."
On this, he smiled and shook his head. "Oh, you would not believe it, really. You would not believe what people get picky about. Thankfully this was an Alaska flight. (It was a SkyWest plane). If this had been a United flight, we would have had all kinds of complaints. You wouldn't believe what United customers are like."
"Seriously!?" I said, sort of shocked.
"Really," he replied.
By now, we were inside the concourse and past our gate, crowds starting to emerge. As our ways were obviously parting, I said, "Have you heard of Louie CK? He's a comedian?"
"No, no I haven't," he replied.
"Well," I began, "He has this great comedy routine based around this idea that we have lost all perspective on what is truly amazing in life, and that every time we sit down in a plane, instead of nitpicking and complaining, we should be saying, "Ohmygosh!! I am about to partake in the miracle of human flight! I'm going to be... flying! It’s amazing! I'm sitting…in a chair…in the sky!”
He actually thought this was quite funny and he definitely got the joke. As we finally parted ways and I found John, I said thanks again and wished him a good afternoon.
So I guess in closing, a couple thoughts. 1. United Airlines customers: Chill out. 2. Pilots do more than fly planes. 3. I am grateful for the fact that air travel is the safest form of travel still in the US (When did you hear of a major airline crash in the US? A car crash? See...) 4. Louie CK, thanks for the laughs. Wish I could post a link to the video but the original clip w/ Conan has been taken down by NBC.
Cheers!
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Skunk Patrol
Apparently God in all of his or her humor was concerned I might be
lacking material, what with the girls in college and my uterus
gone.
Last Sunday night, we arrived home from a weekend in Seattle. It was dark and drizzly and we began unloading the car in the driveway in front of our house. Hazel, our dog, went on the trip so she was thrilled to be back frolicking freely in familiar territory. In her earnest sniffing explorations she discovered a skunk hiding by the side of a house.
Skunks are stealthy and unnatural-looking when they move. They sort of float and are very fast and direct when challenged. There it was, a black, motor-controlled wig, jerking its way across our lawn, charging Hazel and doing the spray-down.
Literally one second I have luggage in my hands and I'm walking to the house, and the next I freeze while my brain is registering, "Is what I think happening, happening?" The air is filling with very potent, acrid skunk spray and Hazel is doing a doggie flip-out.
When dogs are sprayed by skunks, they sort of reel back, hop around a bit, then frantically slide their face across anything nearby; the lawn, the shrubs, a porch mat, or maybe - before you realize what is happening - your nice Michael Kors raincoat. They might also bolt back into the car they just exited ten minutes ago and wipe their face across the back seat.
As chaos erupted on the front lawn, I kept walking into the house, closed the door, and stood in the living room. I stood there for a minute, looking around at our furniture, humming. That didn't just happen, I told myself. It's 9:00 pm on a Sunday night at the end of a long weekend. That didn't just happen.
I opened the door and came back out. Yes in fact, it really did happen. There she still is, whining and sliding her face across the lawn, and luggage is everywhere. The air and my coat, everything smells wretched. Even John, lacking in a sense of smell since a nose injury at the age of two, comments, "I think I smell burning rubber." Yes that, mixed with rotten eggs, sulfur and a strange splash of gasoline.
John at least is mobilizing, trying to get the dog into the backyard. In solidarity, I decide after maybe the whole three minutes this has taken to transpire, to mentally change gears, stop unpacking and get the home-remedy ingredients rounded up.
Now more engaged, I search frantically online for the skunk-remedy recipes, then jump into the car to get to the store, but oh wait, I forgot. It's like the skunk is still in the car, spraying with gusto. And the stinky raincoat, yeah, still wearing that too. At the store in the check-out line, it didn't take a rocket scientist of a cashier to figure out what my life was all about right then with my skunky-self, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and soap. And beer. I was checked-out with amazing speed and thoroughness.
Back at home, we mixed our home remedy and gave Hazel a bath. There was a lot of grunting involved, a whining dog and frantic energy expanded in many directions. The bathroom became a watery disaster zone of black dog hair, dog slobber, towels, wet clothes, rags and buckets, all covered by a wet skunk smell.
Finally, the ordeal was over. Hazel found every place not already wet or stinky in the house to shake her fur and spray skunk water everywhere. We cleaned up slowly, went back to where we left off two hours ago and brought in the rest of the luggage. She slept on the porch and we collapsed into bed.
This burst of chaos actually got me thinking quite a bit about the difference between my life now and when our kids were toddlers, when chaos was the daily hum. I used to live with predictable unpredictability every hour. A skunk spray here and there? That's for rookies. Living a more chaotic reality for years, day in day out, changed me and changed me in good ways that I don't want to forget.
More on that later but for now, grateful Hazel is mostly skunk-smell free, the luggage is unpacked and life is back to normal, which I was told once, is just a setting on a dryer.
Last Sunday night, we arrived home from a weekend in Seattle. It was dark and drizzly and we began unloading the car in the driveway in front of our house. Hazel, our dog, went on the trip so she was thrilled to be back frolicking freely in familiar territory. In her earnest sniffing explorations she discovered a skunk hiding by the side of a house.
Skunks are stealthy and unnatural-looking when they move. They sort of float and are very fast and direct when challenged. There it was, a black, motor-controlled wig, jerking its way across our lawn, charging Hazel and doing the spray-down.
Literally one second I have luggage in my hands and I'm walking to the house, and the next I freeze while my brain is registering, "Is what I think happening, happening?" The air is filling with very potent, acrid skunk spray and Hazel is doing a doggie flip-out.
When dogs are sprayed by skunks, they sort of reel back, hop around a bit, then frantically slide their face across anything nearby; the lawn, the shrubs, a porch mat, or maybe - before you realize what is happening - your nice Michael Kors raincoat. They might also bolt back into the car they just exited ten minutes ago and wipe their face across the back seat.
As chaos erupted on the front lawn, I kept walking into the house, closed the door, and stood in the living room. I stood there for a minute, looking around at our furniture, humming. That didn't just happen, I told myself. It's 9:00 pm on a Sunday night at the end of a long weekend. That didn't just happen.
I opened the door and came back out. Yes in fact, it really did happen. There she still is, whining and sliding her face across the lawn, and luggage is everywhere. The air and my coat, everything smells wretched. Even John, lacking in a sense of smell since a nose injury at the age of two, comments, "I think I smell burning rubber." Yes that, mixed with rotten eggs, sulfur and a strange splash of gasoline.
John at least is mobilizing, trying to get the dog into the backyard. In solidarity, I decide after maybe the whole three minutes this has taken to transpire, to mentally change gears, stop unpacking and get the home-remedy ingredients rounded up.
Now more engaged, I search frantically online for the skunk-remedy recipes, then jump into the car to get to the store, but oh wait, I forgot. It's like the skunk is still in the car, spraying with gusto. And the stinky raincoat, yeah, still wearing that too. At the store in the check-out line, it didn't take a rocket scientist of a cashier to figure out what my life was all about right then with my skunky-self, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and soap. And beer. I was checked-out with amazing speed and thoroughness.
Back at home, we mixed our home remedy and gave Hazel a bath. There was a lot of grunting involved, a whining dog and frantic energy expanded in many directions. The bathroom became a watery disaster zone of black dog hair, dog slobber, towels, wet clothes, rags and buckets, all covered by a wet skunk smell.
Finally, the ordeal was over. Hazel found every place not already wet or stinky in the house to shake her fur and spray skunk water everywhere. We cleaned up slowly, went back to where we left off two hours ago and brought in the rest of the luggage. She slept on the porch and we collapsed into bed.
This burst of chaos actually got me thinking quite a bit about the difference between my life now and when our kids were toddlers, when chaos was the daily hum. I used to live with predictable unpredictability every hour. A skunk spray here and there? That's for rookies. Living a more chaotic reality for years, day in day out, changed me and changed me in good ways that I don't want to forget.
More on that later but for now, grateful Hazel is mostly skunk-smell free, the luggage is unpacked and life is back to normal, which I was told once, is just a setting on a dryer.
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