How the most minimum amount of airline status has ruined my life

I am a silver status flier with Delta (yes, Mrs. Bruninga from the 5th grade, I made something of myself), and it has changed the way I fly for better and worse. But mostly worse. Just in case you didn't know, silver is the absolute least amount of status you can have, while still offering the illusion of elitism. For me, this means feeling entitled to everything, but actually get just maybe one notch above nothing. You don't even get to line up all that early. But even still, it's pretty great. I get upgraded to first class once or twice a year, and getting upgraded to first class feels like what I imagine getting asked to prom would have felt like. 

I recently booked a last-minute flight to New York for the Fourth of July, but everything on Delta was close to 1k week of, and I just drain my Skymiles the moment I get them, so I was on a cash-only budget. I booked with United and had a "see agent" kind of seat assignment. Exciting! When I got to my gate, I noticed that FRA, M. was listed for a first-class upgrade. Um, that's me! I didn't totally understand this l because I haven't flown with United....I think maybe ever. But I accepted it, figuring Delta must have called them or something. Or that my name was recognized as an occasional first-class flyer. I sincerely thought this. So I waited and waited for the gate agent to give me an assignment. She forgot about me once. No problem, no problem. I went back again. And she gave me my ticket. 28B. I told her, No, I'm sorry, my name is actually on the screen for an upgrade. 1B? FRA, M? First class?

You? No. That's not you. 

What. 

I crawled to the back of the bus and kept an eye on 1B during boarding. It stayed completely empty, which drove me nuts. I got off the plane just before the last person got on to check one more time with the gate agent. 

I was just wondering if maybe I was upgraded to 1B?

What? No. That's not you. 

Oh. I just thought I had been upgraded. Because the screen?

Why would you be upgraded? 

(Panic. Say something powerful.) Oh. Because I called someone. 

You called someone? 

Yeah. I thought I had been upgraded. 

No. That's not you. You're not upgraded unless you paid for it. 

Oh. Ok. I'll just get back on the plane then so we can take off. 

So the only difference between the non-status me, happy to fly on Southwest, and the minimum-status me is 1 or 2 first-class upgrades a year, and the audacity to walk off a plane to passive aggressively demand better treatment than everyone else. Drunk. On one shot of power. 

28B, I think you're gonna be good for me. 

Dodging the dip

Through a series of recent gains and losses, my roommate Emily concluded that life is for living and that 2013 is the Summer of Emily. I think her specific advice was “jump on board or get out of the way.”

Flying on the coat tails of this attitude, Emily and I went to a minor league baseball game, the Salt Lake Bee’s, after work last Tuesday. I wore a skirt so we weren’t mistaken for lesbians. And Emily looked nice because it’s the Summer of Emily, and I believe those are part of her rules as outlined.

I’m not sure how minor league baseball became the definitive way for us to live that particular evening, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the right thing to do. Because if you haven’t gotten dressed up to join the flanks of the only people left in Salt Lake City who still drink beer, coupled with a million Mormon families with a million Mormon kids all piled on a lawn together in harmony, barely watching a ballgame, then you haven’t lived, man.

We capped the night off at Sonic for some low-calorie beverages and cheers’ed ourselves a good summer. I call our new-found attitude dodging the dip. Emily calls it the Summer of Emily as previously covered. Either way, we’re in for some pretty high highs I think.

The will to survive

A couple of weeks ago in Iceland, some friends and I went to go visit this massive glacier on the coast. There were enormous chunks of ice (let’s call them icebergs) on the shore because the whole thing backed right up to the ocean. Our friend Billy told us to hop up on one of the bergs so he could take some photos. High on ice and pictures of ourselves, three of us jumped up and one cautious one stayed safely on the shore. Her loss.

We waited for the tide to retreat and then we ran up and jumped on the iceberg. My friend Jana told all of us that she had a really strong foothold and that was the last thing I ever heard her say because then the whole thing started to sway and roll unexpectedly, throwing the other girls into the ocean, while I held form.

All I remember is thinking that I needed to stay on the ice; apparently all Billy was thinking was that he should keep taking pictures. There was a moment of survivor’s guilt and/or pride when I figured they had drowned before Jana stood up and told everyone, including herself, that they were ok.

Another announcement from Jana that their legs could fall off made us all adult-sprint back to the car in fear and chaos. Fortunately, we made it back to the car before anyone’s legs were offered to the sea.

Later in the car when I was looking out the window, thinking about breakfast, my friend who had stayed on the shore (very proud of her cautious wisdom) asked me smugly if I was thinking about my reckless choices. I think we all felt a little better about our internal abilities to survive that day.

A big win

If there’s two things I’m a sucker for, it’s finding the center of attention and hovering close enough to not be accused of wanting it, but absorbing the glory anyway. And the other is a year’s supply of anything. There’s a hoarder inside of us all, right?

Last week, I went on a date to the tip-top of the Energy Solutions Center to watch the Jazz play the Minnesota Timberwolves. But more importantly, one of my date’s friend’s sister works for the Jazz and needed some people to go play musical chairs on the court at halftime. The winning prize? A year’s supply of Powerade.

I wish I could tell you how it all played out. But I was so drunk on attention hovering, Powerade hoarding, and breaking the barriers of going from fifth row from the top to courtside that I can’t remember anything until I was walking away with a certificate for 15 cases of Powerade. To be picked up any time I want. On Tuesdays or Thursdays. From 8am to 4pm. Hauled away by myself.

So once I lose my job, acquire a pickup truck and brute man-strength, I’m throwing a Powerade-sponsored party, and you’re all invited.

Pumpkin follies

Terrible things are bound to happen on Halloween. Like single-people parties filled with vulnerability and sexual tension. It’s important to keep in mind that none of us can be held accountable for our behavior on most holidays. Even the second-string ones.

One party had a pumpkin spice cake though. And…hot damn. I cut a piece that was expert sized: just satisfying enough right until the point I’ll start hating myself. I was pretty happy I found the line until—with feeding-hawk vision—I saw my friend Emily out of the corner of my eye. I figured she must want a bite and was coming to ruin everything. Once her hand started reaching over toward me, I panicked and yelled “you’re going to have to get your own!”…just as her hand landed on the actual target: her diet coke just beyond my plate. She slowly backed away from me, and I hung my head in pumpkin-filled shame.

I wish I could say this was the first time this happened. I wish I could even say this was the first time this happened with Emily. But it’s not. You think I’m cool enough to share that cake or maybe some popcorn with you? I’ll do anything for love. But I won’t do that.  It’s unfortunately not the only thing meatloaf and I have in common.

Emily went as perv bait this Halloween. I went as a cat. With food-hoarding and trust issues. True identities always shine on all hallow’s eve.

Port-a-nap

I just got back from Vegas—more on that later—but because I took the Red Eye home last night, I justified finally buying one of those neck pillows. 

I don't know why I've never bought one before. It's probably because they are only sold at airports and for a small fortune, but even still, I didn't know what I was missing. My connecting flight was delayed twice, and our gate changed once. No problem!

Head tilt. 

I'm already asleep.

I got home an hour ago and I'm still wearing it. Little do you know, I've taken a nap three times in the duration of this post. I considered wearing it to bed tonight, but I feel wrong about that in the same way I feel wrong about mini hot dogs wrapped in bacon. So I'll just save it for travel and longish lines at the grocery store.

Hat Tip

Bethany is one of those friends who any time she opens her mouth, you can be certain some amount of gold is going to tumble out. I'm sharing the comment she left on my blog post below because it would be rude if I kept it from the world.

Bethany'sBazodi said...

My rape-dar is extra sensitive to the many would-be pervs out there too. I always think the cart boy is following me to the car after a late night jaunt to the supermarket. Also, if it's dark outside, I drive over speed bumps really fast in order to scrape off any perverts that are holding on to the undercarriage of my car.

The best offense is a good defense

I don't for one minute trust a man who stops to tie his shoe on an empty sidewalk. I'm looking at you, Brown Suit on my lunch break. I know you didn't end up attacking me, but we both know you thought about it. 

You did, right?

Said Better

My brother Gentzy has some pretty decent ideas every now and then. This one (pulled from an email) might be his crowning jewel:

Also, I have a suggestion for solving our country’s economic woes and the terrestrial woes of the entire country of Japan: let’s give them South Dakota. It’s not near any major fault lines, it’s far from the ocean and its tsunamis, it has business-friendly tax codes, and there is plenty of space.  If we give it to the Japanese, they will have that state humming in 4-6 years.  And, TADOW, they don’t sink in the ocean and we are back on top as the unquestionable world superpower.

He would call this South Tokyota. I think I would call it Nintendo Dakota. But we both agree it's the new San Fran and the street style would be out of this world. 

Thank you for flying me

I'm not a business flyer. I associate airports with holidays, school breaks, and naps. I don't have long legs, children, or a large carryon. I've flown internationally one time and one time only, I fly from the Salt Lake to the St. Louis airport almost exclusively, and I rank a tight.comfortable on the scale of relative poverty. Because of these combined, I almost always fly Southwest. And my trips are almost always the same:

After treating myself to airport sushi, I make my way back to whatever distant wing of the airport where they keep bovine, spare parts, and the Southwest gates. It's like home. Just not the kind of home you show new friends. (There's a reason Southwest tickets cost $12.75 and let you check whatever oversized garbage you and a dolly can carry out of the house.)

But even still, I always try to look nice for a SW flight. Because I want them to know I appreciate them. And also because your chances of flying with a high school junior varsity lacrosse team are very good. And what the best friend of the skies lacks in TVs and seat belts, it makes up for with jokes and fun carpet. And if I were 30% more inclined to carry cash, and 70% less involved with JV lacrosse at the moment, I might actually go tip each and every flight attendant on board.

CMoS

I frequent the Chicago Manual of Style fairly often at work.

Today, under section 5.191 (you know the one), I came across this quote that they actually were hilarious enough to include in their official, peer-reviewed guidance on "Beginning a Sentence with a Conjunction." It comes from Charles Allen Lloyd, “Next to the groundless notion that it is incorrect to end an English sentence with a preposition, perhaps the most wide-spread of the many false beliefs about the use of our language is the equally groundless notion that it is incorrect to begin one with ‘but’ or ‘and.’ As in the case of the superstition about the prepositional ending, no textbook supports it, but apparently about half of our teachers of English go out of their way to handicap their pupils by inculcating it. One cannot help wondering whether those who teach such a monstrous doctrine ever read any English themselves.”

Well ok then.

I just love the keywords, “groundless notion,” “handicap,” and “monstrous” because Charles is berating me and not only do I deserve it, but I want his approval now more than ever. Take notes teacher roommates. The abuse cycle is the only way to educate.

We've been robbed

Yesterday, sometime between 9 a.m., and 4 p.m. (or as I see it: Sometime between oatmeal o’clcok and pre-dinner grapefruit o’clock), our house was broken into. Viotlated. Robbed. Smashed. Wrecked. BLED ON. Panty raided.

My roommates’ laptop, laptop, and camera were stolen, and my laptop and tv had been taken. My underwear was strewn all across my floor, and at first I was flattered. But then after some heavy detective reasoning, and after finding an ugly earring on my floor, I deduced that the little pilferer in my room had been a tiny female. And then I just felt judged.

But then I felt flattered again when I heard Kristine describe my untouched and unscathed bike as being worth $2,000. I didn’t correct her. It is a beautiful bike.

My only fear from this experience is that I have become so critical of our thieves for being so sloppy (an earring?? Blood on my bed?? Come on, O.J.!) that I’ve given far too much thought on how to do it right. And no good can come of that.

But just for the record, I’d at least have a trademark. And that trademark would be stealing all the pencils in the house. And all those pencils would be kept in an unlocked safe in my house to confuse future burglars. And none of this would be disclosed on a public blog.

New place

My roommates and I moved into a new place. We love it.

There's only about two things gross about the house: a smashed/dead fly stuck to our blinds in the kitchen, and a used Tasmanian devil band-aid on the basement stairs. The band-aid was left when the bona fide pervert who delivered our washer and dryer tumbled down the stairs with the dryer crushing him from behind. He only left us with three things: an overall sense of insecurity, a beautiful mental image he illustrated me of how he and I would die together once we were married, and that band-aid.

Anyway, there's a pretty steep wager about which will last longer: the fly or the taz. band-aid, and to be honest my money has got to be on the band-aid because that might have been the closest thing to an engagement ring I'll ever get and to believe it is going to be swept away in a matter of months, well that's just both unromantic and pessimistic, and I am anything but either.

One of Utah now

Today I went to the DMV to secure my spot among the mighty fine league of Utah drivers. When I first moved here I thought my Idaho plates gave me an excuse for being such a poor driver. Then I realized it gave Utah an excuse to resent me even more. Plus it was bad PR for Idaho. And I felt bad about that. I encountered my first problem with the bearded woman at the desk after asking for new plates.

Do you have a title?

-What's that.

Ok... do you have registration?

-Is this it?

That's an advertisment

-Is this it?

That's a police warning... Do you have a full name?

-Margaret Augusta Franz

...data entry... Would you like Centennial or Life Elevated plates?

-Life elevated please! Never skied a day in my life.

I think it was the Augusta that got her in the end. Here's to hoping that Utah fellowship brings me better luck and more love on the road.

I'll have a blue-collar Christmas

Yesterday morning at work, my boss asked if I would take the day to deliver the rest of our firm's Christmas gifts to clients around the area. I thought I'd tell him I'd first have to tie up some loose ends, finish some work and make a couple of calls. But instead I did an internal double fist pump and skipped out the door.

I pictured the rest of the day waltzing in and out of Salt Lake's finest lobbies, being greeted by sweet receptionists I only dream of resembling, while they shower me with chocolate, gratitude and compliments on my yellow coat. What I neglected to realize, however, was that most of our "clients" are inventors, and most of their "offices" are factories. The receptionists weren't exactly "sweet" and I think my yellow coat hurt their eyes. They typically ranged from warehouse wives dressed entirely in gray sweats to teen-aged daughters (or more wives) of foremen. My gifts didn't phase them. But I still tried.

"I brought you a gift!"
--blank stare
"It's for Christmas!"
--blank stare
"Christmas is a holiday season celebrating happiness"
--blank stare
"Happiness is.... Ok, well I'll go move my car so your trucks can get in."
"Thank you."

There it is.

It went on like this for the most part of the day. I got pretty good at handling their indifference, and by the end of the day I began to love my industrial sisters throughout the valley. No chocolate, no receptionist voice, strictly business. It makes sense for them really. If you take time to smile, someone could lose an arm! This sentiment carried me all the way down the road, through a red light and into the heart of Layton City's police chief as he asked me if I was from around there. "No of course not, I went to college, see my vibrantly-colored coat? But I love these people." As Officer Terry left my car with a company christmas gift, and I left Layton City with a verbal warning, I thought I might even have seen a twinkle in his eye, but then again, it was happy hour in Layton City, so I guess I'll never know for sure.

Dear John(ny)

I was four years old when my parents told me they were expecting their next and last baby. I remember being so repulsed by the whole idea that I swore off completely all the making out I had been doing with my three-year-old neighbor, Michael. Lest I find myself wrapped up in the same kind of trouble.

It wasn't a good start for Johnny. Before he was even born he had already robbed me of both my role as youngest, and my premature sex life. Thus the resentment roller coaster was born. On October 12, 1990 (1991?).

Resentment waned and morphed into amusement when he picked up the endearing habit of putting socks into his pants as a tail and growling at strangers in the grocery store. In third grade I wrote a poem about it and entered it into the young author's competition. When I lost, it was time for my muse to become the object of my resentment again. (Had I kept my rightful role of youngest, we'd know that blaming others for my personal rejection is just an unavoidable character flaw obtained from my birth order.)

Resentment probably flared back up again at 15 when he started dating a girl named Maggie born on June 16 (hey that's my birthday!), but then burned back off again when he managed to be the only teenager in this decade to get arrested for stealing music by lifting a CD from Best Buy in the greatest age of online music piracy. Since, my winning approval has been sealed by similarly cute little stunts I just can't help but like.

It's been a significant stretch since I've last resented the little compact-disc, birth-order bandit, and perhaps I'm adult enough to say Johnny, two thumbs up. Welcome to adulthood. If you weren't already there. Again, I'm not sure.

It's cool

It's cool when someone holds the door open for you on the elevator.

It's even cooler when someone asks for your floor, and then pushes the button for you.

It's the coolest when someone remembers your floor from sharing the elevator maybe once or twice and pushes your button for you. "Five, right?" Magic.

Floor Two Lady, you are the coolest. I don't even care that you don't take the stairs like you probably should.

For a limited time only

Today at lunch I saw a homeless gal exhibiting a sign that read:

"Need help, this month ONLY"

Maybe it was the endorphins from my run, or maybe my fatal fondness for both homeless culture and Billly Mays, but whatever the case I found this extremely irresistible.

I didn't have any cash on me and had Kryptonite not been playing*, I would have found it difficult not to unstrap my ipod and throw it to her; not because I believe she would reform herself, but because I love a limited time offer, because I have a weak spot for the homeless and homeless-inspired fashion, and because yeah, September can be kind of hard!

Homeless gal, A+ in advertising. Looking good in those Adidas pants, too.

*Offering no apologies here.

I always knew I liked you

"If you tell a funny story at the dinner table in front of 10 people, nine will laugh, and one will say: that’s not true. I’ve always hated that person."

--David Sedaris

I hate myself for loving you

I may judge a man for the things he likes, but I will certainly loathe myself for the things I love.

For instance, I sort of hate myself for how much I love Titanic. I also hate myself for not loving Flight of the Conchords. It's probably so I can beat everyone else to the punch.

But most of all, I hate myself for loving, so much, the ironic, hilarious statement T's. Tonight I went to the laundromat and saw a large man, daughter in tow, with a shirt on that said "STOP SNITCH'N!" across a stop sign, and I had to laugh because, you are yelling at me and we've never met.

But this isn't the first time I've appreciated and adored these shirts. And I hate that.

I hate that you are a grown man wearing a shirt that says, "Sister for sale..." and that I love it.

I hate that I wonder how many times a week you wear that "Warn a Brother" shirt because I know it's more than one and I hope it's more than five.

I hate that I want to know what you were thinking when you bought your shirt. If you laughed, or if (and I hope) you looked at it and thought, 'yeah... people do need to stop snitch'n, and I need to let them know that... one to five times a week.'

But most of all I hate that I don't hate it, not a little bit, not even at all.