The six-word story of my life

“You’re a little strange, aren’t you?”

I felt a smile creep across my face as I looked down at the passenger who asked it. Per his request, I had just finished explaining to him how the hell my (budget) airline worked and how he could get the best deal next time by … ahem … reading his emails. REVOLUTIONARY. I had a stretchy band of pearls holding back the bangs of my pixie cut and giant cat-eye glasses sliding down the bridge of my nose. I believe that was the day my commuter flight was delayed and I almost didn’t make it to work, so I probably didn’t have a stitch of makeup on my face. ( :O Naughty, naughty flight attendant!!)

“Why yes. Yes I am,” I replied. 

You know those six-word stories instructors have you write in English or creative writing courses? I’ve finally found mine. I’m pretty sure that comment was the highlight of the entire trip for me. Consider the alternative: “Wow, you’re pretty normal, aren’t you?” Meh.

I like to think that no matter how many legs I’ve had that day or how little sleep I got, I can still engage in some witty banter. This might annoy some co-workers of mine, but it’s a great alternative to the all-out abrasiveness toward passengers that results in complaint letters and in-house investigations that painstakingly take place over several different email threads in which no one can tell what’s actually going on. Like hey guys, didn’t we become flight attendants in part to avoid lengthy and seemingly pointless email correspondences? I sure thought so.

I have what’s called a line at work now, which means I’m actually on the plane working a hell of a lot more and makes alone time that much more heavenly. So instead of being a slave to my cellphone on reserve, I’m given a monthly schedule of trips I can then manipulate by dropping, adding or swapping with other flight attendants. This makes it possible to earn some decent cash and also plan your life a lot more. To further explain, I’ll insert this highly accurate visual aid:

And since I commute to work now (oh what we do for love), I prefer to engage in what’s called “stacking” my trips. I essentially give myself about half the month off in exchange for nonstop work the remainder of the month. For me anyway, the trade-off is beautiful. When I’m in Chicago between trips, I stay at a handy dandy place called a crash pad. It’s a two-bedroom apartment I share with seven (count ’em, seven) other people, who — as lovely as they are — hopefully are not all there at the same time. There are enough roommate romances and small squabbles going on to fuel a reality television program.

As far as crash pads go, though, I’m immensely lucky. It’s clean and most of the time, I can get some sleep. I get my flying in, stay entertained at the crash pad, and then come back to my little cozy home in St. Louis to, well, continue being a little strange.

Thanks for stopping by! :)


Peace, love & fairy dust,




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