survival

I survived - but barely.

It's the tiniest plane in the world - like the kind Buddy Holly and Richie Valenz would ride. You have to duck to get in the door - no kidding. We can't even carry our carry-on luggage with us. It has to be stowed underneath in the "vallet" section - which is a really nice word for "the crap we will immediately jettison when our lone engine gives out, and we have to hang glide into a cornfield to save ourselves."

We were warned as we sat in the lobby that there were weight restrictions. If a few extra curling irons, shoes, or People magazines are gonna make-or-break the takeoff - I really do not want to be on board. To make matters worse, I watch as Captain Trevor boards the plane, fist bumping the stewardess. He's got bleach-blonde tips, his dress shoes are Sketchers, and they are untied. I swear he calls the co-pilot "dude."

So, I pop whatever half-pills I had leftover from my last flight into my mouth, and take my window seat. I hate window seats. Plus, it's a seat over the wing - you know, so I can continue to monitor exactly how unstable the whole thing looks, and how much the wing flaps wobble before they become completely unhinged from the body of the plane.

To put my mind at ease I shut the window shade. But the stewardess comes by and tells me to make sure my entire bag is under the seat in front of me, AND to make sure my window shade is up.

"Why?"
"For a safe takeoff."

Are you kidding me? Safe takeoff?!! You need ME to be watching outside to make sure everything is going smoothly?! There are 30 windows on this plane - they are ALL up - including the pilots. What could I possibly be contributing to our overall safety?

So I ask the guy next to me.

"Is lifting this shade really gonna save my life?"
"I don't know," he says, "But they always say it. I think it's so terrorists don't come and shut all of the shades."
"If terrorists are sitting in ALL of the window seats who CARES if the plane goes down."
"Good point," he says.

But the stewardess comes back, so I put the shade up. I look at my seat mate like I am going to vomit airport pretzel and stale xanax all over him. He mouths the word "sorry," and looks away.

I am two rows behind the emergency exit. I always plan it that way - none of the actual responsibility of having to save lives, but close enough to make a quick getaway. I am always close enough to climb right over the seats if need be - no concern about who I might have to step on to get there. Trouble is, this plane is so small that a pre-teen Chinese contortionist could not fit between the top of those seats and the roof. I will have to go around. But the lady on my side doesn't look like she could open a jar of mayonaise let alone the vacuum sealed door of an aircraft. I decide to use the other exit - the guy there looks pretty ripped, and I am pretty sure his door will open. Hopefully he is still conscious upon impact.

We take off. The noisiest takeoff I have ever heard. At first we are buffeting along - surfing the wind like the Wright Brothers until Captain Trevor finally catches a wave. But it doesn't last long - we keep bumping and dropping - just like in that movie where the rugby players crashed and had to eat each other to survive. That will be us. And the first person I am going to eat is that stewardess who made me keep my shade up.

Miraculously, 90 minutes later, we land. Both emergency exists are still closed, my seat mate is relatively unscathed and nobody has been eaten - but I still have to fly back home.

st. louis

I am flying on an airplane today - which I hate. To make matters worse, it is one of those teeny-tiny airplanes, where the whole thing is only three seats across - one seat on the left side of the aisle, two on the right - which among other things, does not sound terribly aerodynamic.

The plane is so small they will not even let you choose your seat online - probably because they have to do a weigh in or something - assign our seats based on actual kilograms, so we don't tip-over midflight.

To top it off, I am going to St. Louis, so it is just going to be me and a bunch of old people heading to Branson for the Oakridge Boys reunion or some other wild shindig. This is bad news for several reasons - one: I will be stuck sitting next to a) some old woman who owns seven cats, and has hidden two of them in her overnight bag or b)the Oakridge Boys. Two: If somebody decides to hijack this plane, Obama will have no trouble ordering it shot down in the name of national security. I can hear them in the control room already:
"We have a hijack situation here."
"How many souls on board?"
"Twelve - ten if we don't count the cats. Two pilots, the hijacker, three old women, one old man, two Oakridge boys, and some lady trying to open the emergency exit."
"We've set a tracking missle on you already."
"Sounds good."

The fact is - whatever looser would try to hijack that plane is obviously new at the job, and could probably be scared off by letting the cats loose - but hey, we all need to start somewhere.

Maybe I will luck out and it will be an Osmond bothers reunion. Maybe my flu medicine will just knock me out, and I will be blissfully unaware of my own tragic fate. Maybe I will actually make it back home . . . keep your fingers crossed for me.

what I cannot write

Something happened to me in the other day - something that I cannot write here - my children read this. It is both funny and humiliating, which I know you all love. So if you have access to any of the other blogs, you can read it there.
j

We have had a lot going on lately - but our picture-transfer thing does not seem to work. On top of it, I have been at work from 9-9 almost every night for a few weeks.

I will get caught up - promise - as soon as I get over the flu . . . .

flood

Basement flooded.
Furniture is heavy.
The water is cold.
Carpet needs to be replaced.
That is really all I have to say about that.

Yesterday I bought a five dollar set of magnetic poetry for the fridge. I am sort of a minimalist, and really do not like having stuff plastered all over, but the kids do, so I bit my tongue and bought it.

I am so glad I did. They have been playing with it nonstop.

This morning Kooks's poem to me said:
I love you like a tremendous dream.

Punk's was this:
My mother always makes me laugh. Her gentle whisper is kind like an angel. Her kiss has the power of heaven.

Wow.
Best 5 bucks I ever spent.

conferences

I am sitting at parent-teacher conferences which, considering our family's educational background is a strange place to be.

A year ago, my kids had never been in public school, and I certainly never thought I'd be doling out grades to anybody but my own two kids.

But here I am, between conferences, waiting for the next parent. I never have anything bad to say . . . unless you can count "Wow she talks a lot," as bad - which I don't. I really like all of the kids I teach, and they all have their strengths.

Yesterday, they performed in front of the whole school and all of the parents. Most of these kids had never been on stage before . . . but they were so confident, so enthusiastic, that they brought the house down . . . and I was so, so happy (just for a while) that we have taken this journey this year.

I am still waiting for the parents of the one kid who makes dirty jokes under his breath to show up . . .other than that, it should be smooth sailing for me today.