Galley Gossip: Stew Shoes (the search continues…)

by Heather Poole on

Ever wonder what flight attendants talk about in the galley behind closed curtains? Oh I bet you do. Most days you’d probably be sorry you asked. For real. It can get a little crazy back there. But recently I had a conversation on-board a flight that was tame enough to share, a conversation that I think all flight attendants at all airlines would be interested in hearing, and it started out something like this..

“I’m sorry,” said Diane, my fellow coworker, as she sat on the jumpseat and quickly looked over her shoulder into the dimly lit coach cabin to make sure no one was listening. No one was listening. No one was even there. All of our passengers were actually in their seats with their seat belts fastened. Most likely because we’d already finished the last beverage service of the night, the in-flight movie was just about over, and in less than an hour we’d be touching down in Los Angeles (And on our way to the layover hotel.) That’s when Diane leaned in close and half whispered, “But I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Oh my gosh, me neither!” I exclaimed, hopping off the jumpseat in order to grab a glass of water for a passenger who’d stumbled smack dab into the middle of our conversation. I smiled. He smiled. Diane smiled. We all smiled. And then he thanked me for the water and disappeared. Sitting down on the jumpseat closest to Diane, I added, “Don’t get me wrong, there are times when I wish I could do it, really I do, but I can’t. I just can’t do it. I don’t know why.”

We began giggling when the super cute one with the bleached blond hair dressed in navy blue polyester pants and a starched white button down shirt sauntered into the back galley with a full bag of trash in hand, because he had, in fact, actually done it. He’d done what Diane and I could not bring ourselves to do. Not in this lifetime. What the heck did he do? The Dansko clog of course!

In case you haven’t been on an airplane in the last ten years, the Dansko clog is to the flight attendant what the Tumi bag is to the frequent flier. Next time the beverage cart makes a stop at your row, go ahead, take a look, I bet they’re there. They’re everywhere! Just not on my feet.

What happened to be on my feet the night I found myself giggling away with Diane on the jumpseat in the back of coach on a 767 was a brand new pair of shoes that, after one six hour long flight, had turned out to be a huge mistake killing my feet. They needed to be replaced. And fast! So, once again, the search for the perfect flight attendant shoe began. It’s been ongoing for years. Thirteen years to be precise.

All I want is something cute enough to wear through the terminal and comfy enough to walk up and down the aisle, that’s it. But that, I have to say, as most flight attendants already know, is next to impossible to find. Oh I’m done with the whole high-heel-change-into-a-flat thing. Done carting around an extra pair of comfortable shoes in my already overstuffed tote bag that I have to change into as soon as we hit our cruising altitude . I mean all I want to do is put on a pair of shoes before I leave the house and be done with it. That’s it. I’m over it.

Which now brings me to three distinct types of flight attendant shoes (for women) I’ve encountered working the line over the years…

THE NEW HIRE HEEL. These clickity clackers can be seen from miles away, because they’ve probably been paired with a skirt that’s just a tad bit too short, as they strut through the airport terminal. Trust me, there is no freakin way these babies can work a flight, which is why they’re usually the opening act for the Dansko clog. Yes, this is the flight attendant fantasy shoe – for men. (And I’m not just talking about the men in drag.) Add another inch to this heel and these, to me, scream available! At least on the airplane they do, because in real life I…well…maybe, sort of, kind of, like them…kind of, maybe, sort of. Okay okay, so I actually own a pair (or two), so what! I only wear them hidden under a long jean. Not on the airplane. Nor in the terminal. Why? Because they say, “is there anything else I can get you, sir?” (Wink Wink). They belong to Cockpit Connie. Not you. Or do they belong to my flight attendant friend Steven? Or was it me! Jeez, I can’t remember.

THE OVER IT SHOE: Those of you who do not pick up trash at 35,000 feet for a living probably think this shoe belongs hidden behind the cart, or in the back of a closet, or at the bottom of a trash bin, and you’re probably right, but ever since our work days have gotten longer and our layovers have gotten shorter (layover, what layover?) this is the shoe for me. Remember, I’m over it, and because I’m so over it (the shoe, people, not the job!) I can’t even properly explain it. In fact, I don’t even know if it can be explained, whatever it is I’m trying to explain. Or perhaps I’ve just been flying too much.

THE SENIOR MAMA LOAFER: Can you say retire already so I can finally get a little seniority and fall off the reserve list before I’m 50. Seriously people! Believe it or not, the person who now wears these sensible comfy loafers once wore those sexy white patent leather go-go boots with a hot little mini skirt. She did. Really she did. And maybe, just maybe, he did, too. Hey, you never know. So when you see a pair of these tired looking loafers walking down the nasty carpeted aisle, remember where they’ve been. What they’ve seen. And all the things they’ve done. (That you haven’t. And never will.) And don’t forget to aways – ALWAYS – respect the loafer!

What will I be wearing on my next flight? Check out these babies from Beautiful Feel, which I purchased from The Walking Store earlier this week. No, they weren’t cheap, but if they can make my feet feel beautiful while I’m picking up trash at 35,000 feet, feeling oh so not beautiful, I’ll pay whatever it takes. And more.

Galley Gossip: The problem with “soaring” ticket prices

by Heather Poole on

Remember what airline tickets used to cost? Oh no, I’m not talking about last year, go back a little bit further, okay a lot further, like 1950 further…remember those prices? I didn’t think so.

A couple years ago I went just a wee bit crazy, spending too much time (and money) on eBay bidding on airline ads from the 1960’s and 1970’s. They were big and bright and colorful and they said things like: “fly me,” “just a working girl working,” “think of her as your mother.” They were sexy and sexist, totally wrong, and yet so right — at the time. I loved them. Still do. Had them framed. Hung them on the wall. And then, last year, tucked them away in a drawer for safe keeping (and a clutter free office). I think of one of those ads often whenever I hear people complaining about the price of airline tickets, or whenever I read articles like the one by Dan Reed in USA TODAY entitled “Airline Tickets Soar This Summer” that was featured on AOL with the caption, “Passengers Can’t Bear to Look.”

Well I’ve got something for those passengers to look at, something that may force them to rethink the definition of soaring ticket prices. I mean, soaring? Don’t you think we’re being a bit dramatic here? Especially when people are willing to spend hundreds of dollars on fast food, botox, designer clothes, and even video games for the kids. Give me a break. Because the ad, the one I mentioned above from 1950, lists the price of a ticket from New York to Paris for $326. Please, can anyone tell me, what else out there costs the exact same price as it did over fifty years ago?

Precisely.

Yeah, I know, service in the air has gone down hill big time. You don’t have to tell me. I live it every time I put on my uniform. In fact, I spend most of my time at work apologizing because we don’t have this and we don’t have that to a flight full of miserably cramped passengers. I feel for those passengers. I really do. It’s gotten bad out there. Worse than bad. Flying, today, is just not what it used to be, for everyone involved – passengers and crew alike.

But what gets me is that thirteen years ago I worked at a no frills airline called Sunjet International Airlines. The ticket price back then was $99 to fly one way from Dallas to Fort Lauderdale, Newark, or Long Beach. That was thirteen years ago. Fuel prices were 1/3 of what they are today. Keep in mind that price was on an airline that offered pretty much nothing but a seat (a broken seat covered in duct tape), a lot of delays (I’m not talking a few hours delayed, I’m talking two-day delays), lost luggage (or no luggage at all. What do you mean you checked bags?), and a burnt chocolate chip cookie, depending on who happened to be in the galley that day. Then, in 1995, I found myself working for a major US carrier, on probation for six months without flight privileges, in the month of December. The price of a ticket from New York to Dallas was oh just $800. In Coach. Needless to say, I didn’t get make it home for Christmas that year.

Now flash forward thirteen years and you can fly nonstop on a major carrier from New York to Los Angeles for as little as $235 round trip. I’m sorry, but that’s not bad. In fact, it’s so not bad that I just bought myself a seat on that same flight (even though I’m able to fly standby for free) I challenge anyone to drive that same distance for less money. Yes, airline ticket prices are up 200% from last year, but when you realize they were down 700%, that’s still a good ticket price! So when someone writes a piece about the “soaring” ticket prices of today, I have to shake my head and think, how soon we all forget.

Galley Gossip: Should airlines restrict how much we pack?

by Heather Poole on

I was reading Grant Martin’s post, Should airlines charge you by your weight? and immediately thought of The Husband, who has recently become obsessed with the weight of my bag. The tote bag. That little black bag that attaches to the big black rolling bag, the one that gets placed in the overhead bin closest to my jumpseat.

Just last week I was on the floor, packing up the old tote bag, getting ready to commute back to work, as The Husband leaned against the wall of our bedroom watching me struggle with the zipper. With all my might I pressed as hard as I could, squishing down the contents inside, so I could just…get…the thing…zipped. There!

The Husband began to shake his head. I must tell you that I really do not like when he shakes his head like that, because when he starts in with all that head shaking business it means that he’s got something to say and I usually don’t care to hear what he has to say, especially in situations like this. Trust me, I’ve heard it a million times already.

“Unbelievable,” he said, and that’s all he said, yet that pretty much said it all, did it not?

“Go away,” I said, because I was just about to start filling up the suitcase, and that, I have to say, can get ugly. Very ugly.

He handed me a stack of magazines I’d left on the dresser, and smirked. “Don’t forget these.”

“Oh thanks” I said, as I unzipped the tote bag. I moved a few things around and proceeded to get a copy of Us, Writer, Budget Travel and Vanity Fair inside. Then I remembered the books! Yes, books, as in more than one, because I only had ten pages left to go in Margo Candela’s latest novel, More Than This, therefore I needed a backup book, so I grabbed a paperback copy of Lolita, a book I’ve been meaning to read for what, maybe ten years now, and somehow managed to get it all inside. With all my might I pressed as hard as I could and tried…to get..the thing….zipped. There, got it! I don’t know how I did it. But I did.

The Husband continued to shake his head. “What are you doing? Why are you taking all that?”

“I need. it.”

“You need it?”

“Yes, I need it. I’m going to be gone for five days. I need it.”

Okay, we’ve been married for five years now, so you’d think by now the guy would know that a flight attendant never leaves home without her reading material. I mean, hello!

As I rolled my empty suitcase out of the closet, I asked “What?” because he was at again, the head was shaking.

“You know the airline would save a lot of money if they fired you.”

“Go away,” I said, and meant it.

So he’s probably right, the airline would save a TON of money if they started putting restrictions on what we pack, even so, I’m not giving up my reading material. No. Freakin. Way. I don’t care how much money it saves the company, not after all I’ve given up already – pay, meals, pay, vacation, pay, you get the picture. I’m taking it all with me. And maybe a little more. Like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, for instance, just in case, ya know, I get hungry during a six hour flight. And my Ipod, so I can relax in a dumpy airport layover hotel after a long day at work. And a couple packets of oatmeal, so I can eat before the flight in the morning since we usually leave so early we don’t have time to grab anything. And a couple extra packets of nondairy creamer, because…well..there’s never enough creamer in the hotel room, and this girls gotta have her creamer. And antibacterial hand lotion, in case we have a sniffling passenger or two onboard. And cold medicine, in case the antibacterial hand lotion does not work. Oh and Tums, in case there’s left over food on the airplane and I actually decide to eat it. And water, in case, you know, I get thirsty while I’m gone for five days. And….well…do I really need to go on? The bag gets packed. Full. And The Husband continues to shake his head.

Galley Gossip: Sandvich Girl

by Heather Poole on

I’ve been called many things in my life – good and bad (mostly good) – but the other day I was called something that made me stop dead in my scuffed up Mary Janes on the nappy blue carpet, something that made me, for a split second, take a step back and wonder, what the heck have I done with my life? And then I quickly shook myself out of it, because my life, to put it quite simply, is pretty darn great, and so I continued down the aisle.

What was it that actually made me examine my life at 35,000 feet? It wasn’t much. Just two little words. That’s it. But they were two oh so innocent, yet very shocking, little words.

I mean there I was, rolling down the aisle behind the snack cart. It was a nice day. My crew was good and the passengers were great. What more could a flight attendant ask for? I think we were probably somewhere over Illinois when I asked, over and over and over, “Would you care to purchase a snack?” That’s when I heard a scratchy voice located somewhere not too far behind me say something I could not believe.

“Sandvich girl! Oh sandvich girl!”

At first I laughed, and then I turned around. That’s when I realized it was me that the petite frail one wearing black wrap around glasses had called sandvich girl. ME! I was sandvich girl. Dear god, I remember thinking, how did this happen? As I handed the woman a turkey and cheese sandwich and collected a five dollar bill.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and quickly moved the cart.

Like most flight attendants, I have a college degree. I’ve done the whole nine to five thing. Guess what, I really did not enjoy waking up every morning at the same time and going to the same job where I worked with the same people every single day. Oh no, that was just not for me. Even though I had the kind of job many people would kill for: I designed clothes. (Okay, so they were western clothes, so what! They were clothes nonetheless, and I designed them.) Then I designed watches for a well known watch company. I probably designed a watch you even wore. (Thirteen years ago.) The jobs were great, but I had this strange feeling that something was missing in my life, and that something wasn’t a new car or a new outfit or whatever the money I made could purchase. It was something more. What, I did not know. Not at the time. So I got up at eight in the morning each and every day, jumped into the Ford Probe, drove fifteen minutes to the building where I sat at the same cubicle and worked on, basically, the same thing, until I ate lunch at the same places with the same people, and so on, until it was time to go home. I did this until one fateful day, and that was the day I did not receive the raise I thought I deserved. Of course at the time it felt like the worst thing in the world. Little did I know that not getting that raise turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. What did I do? I quit. And then a few days later I answered an ad in the newspaper. A no frills airline was looking for flight attendants. Why not, I remember thinking.

“I’ll do it for a few months, just for fun, until I find another job,” I remember telling my friends .

At the time I was determined not to jump into just any job. I wanted to take my time and find a good job. One that paid well. And while I went on several interviews looking for that perfect job, I served blueberry muffins and chocolate chip cookies back and forth between Ft Lauderdale, Newark, Long Beach, and Dallas for just $99 a flight at night. Life was good.

Well one month turned into two, and two turned into three, and after I realized I wasn’t going anywhere, that this was it, I applied to another airline, a major carrier, where before I knew it one year had somehow turned into thirteen. And I still love the job. Actually, what I love, is the lifestyle. The flexibility. The freedom. The excitement of not knowing what the day will bring. And leaving that day behind when I step off the airplane. I love knowing I can go anywhere anytime as long as there’s an airport nearby. Believe it or not, I even like wearing the flammable polyester navy blue uniform. (Please don’t tell anyone.) Oh sure, I wish things were different in the airline industry. Who doesn’t? I mean who doesn’t wish things were just better in the world in general? Hey, that’s life. And my life, I have to say, is good, real good. Even if I am sandvich girl.

Galley Gossip: Flight Attendant Pet Peeve #1: Answer please!

by Heather Poole on

I’m working the very last leg of a three day, three-leg-a-day, trip.

Still with me? Good.

I’m rolling down the aisle behind a 150 pound cart loaded with ice, soda, beer, liquor, and snacks for sale, along with inserts on top filled with cups, napkins, juice, water, and a couple of hot pots of coffee and tea. Nine times out of ten, I’ll probably reach your row and ask the question of the day: “Would you care for something to drink?”

And three times out of five the response will be, “Wha?” And that’s a wha without the T.

Normally when faced with this type of situation, I force a smile, grab a napkin, and wave it while eyeing the tray table locked in the closed position in front of you. “Something to drink?” I’ll ask again, and while I ask this question I find myself wondering why you haven’t taken off the Ipod or those giant Bose noise cancellation headsets covering your ears when you see me standing at your row.

“Wha?” you ask again, scrunching your eyebrows together, because, for some reason, you’re not understanding what I’m saying, even though I’ve been standing behind a beverage cart for the last fifteen minutes slowly inching my way towards you.

I try again, “Drink, something to drink?” now playing a game of charades as I put a pretend cup to my lips and tilt my head back, repeating the word, “Drink? Drink?”

Finally the headset comes off, you smile, and I actually hear, “I’m sorry what?”

This is not a Saturday Night Live parody. This is a real life conversation that happens more often than not on flights each and every day. It happens over and over and over. In fact, it happens so often that I can no longer bring myself to ask the question – again. So I just hand you a can of Coke with a cup of ice and move the cart to the next row. I’m sorry, but three strikes you’re out! Other people are waiting.

Lately flight attendants have gotten a bad rap. Trust me, I’ve heard the horror stories. And I know they’re out there, the bad flight attendant, because I, too, have had to work with a few of those flight attendants. It’s not fun for either of us. But keep in mind there are also good flight attendants out there who really do enjoy their job. Like me. But even I get annoyed and a little short when I encounter a passenger like the one above. Remember I have now asked the question, “would you care for something to drink?” which has been shortened to “something to drink?” and shortened again to just “drink!” AT LEAST 960 times in the last three days. And that doesn’t count the number of times I’ve been ignored, causing me to ask the same person the same question three times in a row. It’s the kind of thing that could make a flight attendant go a little crazy. Or maybe a lot crazy. So crazy she may actually rip a piece of paper off the cart, grab a strip of tape, scribble a barely legible note, tape it to her airline ID and wear the thing around her neck as she rolls down the aisle behind the heavy cart.

“Something to drink?”

“Wha?”

I grab the ID around my neck, the one with the scribbled note that reads, Drink? Please answer! and hold it up with a smile.

The passenger nods, and asks, “What do ya have?”

I take a deep breath. “Coke. Diet Coke. Pepsi. Diet Pepsi. Sprite. Diet Sprite. Dr. Pepper. Diet Dr. Pepper. Ginger Ale. Diet Ginger Ale. Club Soda. Apple Juice. Cranapple Juice. Orange Juice. Tomato Juice. Grapefruit Juice. Coffee. Tea. Water. Tonic Water.”

“Umm…I’ll take a Coke.”

Still with me?

Good.