Monthly Archives: June 2007

4-H, 4-You! 4-America! 4-H!

Posted on June 30, 2007 | 1 comment

Picture this. July, 1985. The height of the Reagan Era. “Like A Virgin” and “Careless Whisper” topped the pop music charts. The Marion County Fair was in its prime. And, it was the end of farming for yours truly.

I must say that as a gay kid growing up in rural Iowa, I did the best that I could. While I would have rather been in the house baking cookies and reorganizing my bedroom, I was out feeding the calves and “walking” the electric fence. (farming 101–the electric fence surrounded the pasture where the cattle grazed–we had to make sure no weeds were touching the fence…) I spent most of my chore time talking and singing to myself, unaware that anyone could possibly hear me. My point is, I would have rather been indoors.

Each summer me, my three siblings, and our “prize” heifers (farming 101a–heifers are young, female cows) would make the trip to the Marion County Fair. What a nightmare. I hated this time of year more than anything. It meant hours upon hours of washing, combing, training, feeding our “prize” heifers for the competition. And, I usually approached it with the excitement one usually reserves for root canals. That is, until the 1985 Marion County Fair.

I decided that for this year, I was done taking last place. I was a winner and the judges somehow continually misjudged me. Ok. I’m not fooling anybody. I was the least interested of my siblings in this bullshit (pun intended); and so, I always got the runt of the heifers. One year, I actually was given a deformed calf. Her name was Martha, and she was born with her head on sideways (seriously). Needless to say, Martha didn’t live long enough to even make it to the fair, but my point is clear.

However, there was one prize I could take: The Marion County Fair, Dairy Division, Livestock Showmanship Award. The title alone made me twirl and giggle with glee. And, the thought of that trophy in my bedroom simply made me gitty. I was already redecorating my bedroom around it. This award was given to the one individual who took the best care of their heifer during the week of the fair. I just had to do the best job of shoveling poop. It was as good as mine.

So, during the fair, when I would have normally been spending every waking moment on the carnival rides, allowing my heifer to starve; I went crazy shoveling poop. If my heifer even looked like she was going to poop, I was there waiting to catch it in my shovel. I was a farming rockstar.

It was no surprise that I took last place in the actual competition. But, my showmanship trophy would be given to me on Friday at the end of the fair. When I wasn’t hovering behind my heifer, waiting for her to defecate; I was practicing my surprised reactions for when I was announced as the winner. I also was taking note of my competition. There wasn’t any. Simply no one was spending nearly the amount of time with their heifer that I was. No one.

The moment finally arrived for me to accept my award. The 4-H Superintendant of the Dairy Barn gathered everyone together to make the big announcement. After making the standard announcements, she finally got to the point. “The Marion County Fair, Dairy Division, Livestock Showmanship Award” goes to… I could feel myself get light-headed. And, I think that I actually blacked-out for a few moments, because I didn’t hear her say my name. I didn’t hear her say anyone’s name. I just saw some dumb-ass loser kid walking up to take my trophy.

What happened next will go down in the Marion County 4-H program history books. It was also when I learned how to make a dramatic exit. I couldn’t control what happened next. It just happened. I wailed. Literally. This shriek of horror escaped my lungs as I turned and ran. Straight to our fold-down camper. I cried so hard and for so long that my parents actually had to get the Dairy Superintendant to come to the camper and console me. She gave me some lame reason why we are all winners…but, it didn’t matter, though, it was just confirmation of what I already knew…I was not a farmer.

I don’t know if it was from embarassment or pity, but, my parents never really pushed me to do anything 4-H-related again. And, when my parents sold our dairy operation several years later, I knew it was because I was secretly willing all of those cows to break out through the electric fence and never return.

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Posted in Family, Gay, Humor, My Life, The Early Years

So, is this your normal route?

Posted on June 29, 2007 | 2 comments

After I finished my last blog, I had an extremely disturbing realization. Some of my most interesting, or should I say…bizarre… stories from the airplane are not about passengers. They are about other flight attendants.

It really is no surprise to me that, for many people, the profession is full of mystique. Another non-surprising fact, however, is the number of flight attendants on Prozac. People always raise an eyebrow when I tell them what I do for a living. And then the questions begin.

1) So…is this your normal route?
2) So…where are you based at?
3) So…do you have to pay for your hotel rooms?
4) So…I’ve always wanted to be a flight attendant, do you think I could do it?
5) So…I bet you have lots of funny stories about passengers, don’t you?
6) So…what mountain is that?

It’s like we are this highly secretive club, and no one is allowed to know the deep, dark secrets of the flight attendant sister/brotherhood. This is partly true. We do have our deep, dark secrets. And, I will let you in on one of our biggest. There is a large group of flight attendants that are crazy. They aren’t right in the head. And, who knows, they could be serving you your drink…

I think it is important for everyone to realize that about 95% of the time the people that I am working with are strangers. I have just met them. Or, perhaps I have worked with them once before, like 4 years ago. So, it should seem a little odd that I would work with someone who would pull out a photo album of himself working out at the gym. This happened, and then he proceeded to pull out these hand-blown glass beads strung together to make a necklace…think Flintstones. They were more like smooth rocks…very neanderthal. And, he was trying to sell them to me. This same flight attendant also would strip down to his undershirt the moment he got off the plane. I guess he just didn’t care for the uniform.

Then there is the flight attendant who wears plastic dishwashing gloves to serve her drinks. Or, the flight attendant who literally disappears during flights. He will actually slip into a row of seats, sometimes even crawling over passengers to sit at the window seat and stare out the window. There is another flight attendant who has a little photo book full of pictures of her, unsuspecting sleeping passengers, and a little Chucky doll. I must admit that it is funny, but, unusual still the same.

I could go on and on, but it doesn’t paint a positive picture of mental health for the aviation industry…and I don’t want to be responsible for scaring you from flying. That’s why I will refrain (for now anyway) from telling you just how crazy some of the pilots are…

Oh yes, this is my normal route and that is Mt. DILLIGAF (Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck) down there.

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Posted in Flight Attendant, Humor

One Time, at Flight Attendant Camp…

Posted on June 23, 2007 | 1 comment

Recently, I had to go to recurrent training. For those of you non-airline folk, this is a yearly training day that all flight attendants must attend. Basically, once you requalify to evacuate a plane and perform CPR, all that’s left is about 7 hours of listening to a few people tell all of their war stories while the instructor tries to push us through the standard required information.

Ah, yes, stories from the airplane. Very few of these stories are ever very original. We’ve all heard them before. And the fun really starts when people start telling stories that aren’t even their own. These are airline myths. Kind of like the girl who tanned too much in the tanning bed and cooked her insides…

I think that for some, it really is the only time when they have a captive audience that has to listen to their stories. We are mandated by the government to be in that classroom for 8 hours. Everyone knows it. The longer the stories, the longer the day. It’s really great when someone says, “I know that everyone hates it when someone tell stories, but…” And they proceed to tell the standard, “my friend got a federal fine of $1000 for not standing in her boarding position…” or some other standard airline myth.

I consciously don’t even ask the instructor any questions. I don’t want to provoke a story from someone who thinks they have an illustration for my question. Which got me thinking–I do have some good airline stories. They are true, and they happened to me. This is no second hand stuff. I swear on my Flight Attendant Manual that what I am about to share is not bullshit.
———-

On one particular flight about 6 years ago, there was someone who I probably can assume was homeless. How she got an airline ticket is beyond me. She was smelly, dirty, wearing mismatched clothes that were not her size, and she was dragging her belongings behind her in a bundle tied together with rope. How she managed to not offend people with her smell or bundle, I’ll never know. But, anyway, she made it onto my plane, and I was not about to be the one to deal with her now.

The flight went just fine. It was a short flight so we didn’t have to smell her for too long. Upon deplaning, a passenger approached me and said, “You may want to check, I think that lady took her seat cushion.” I looked back the couple rows to where she was sitting and sure enough, no seat bottom cushion. So, I went out into the jetway and found her tightening the ropes on her “carryon” bundle. Sticking out the back side was a bright blue seat cushion from the plane.

I said, “Ummm…M’am, I’m sorry, but we are going to need to keep that seat cushion you have tied up in your bundle.” And, I am not kidding, she looked thoughtfully at me and said, “Oh…but, I paid for my seat.” To which I responded, “That’s partly true…but, you paid to sit in your seat. You don’t get to keep your seat, we need it for the next passenger.” She looked at me, nodded at the cushion as if to say, “ok, take it, it’s your’s…”

Let me just say, I received some of the strangest looks from exiting passengers as I was trying to “steal” a seat bottom cushion from a homeless lady. I probably should have just let her have it. But, I had heard in recurrent training that there was this flight attendant from this other airline that got in trouble for allowing passengers to take seat bottom cushions…

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Posted in Flight Attendant, Humor

@$%#!

Posted on June 21, 2007 | 4 comments

My entire family lives in Iowa. Mostly around Pleasantville. And you guessed it… the name says it all! I think that still is the town of 1,500’s motto. Go Trojans! Anyway, that’s what it was 15 years ago when I left.

As much as I like to poke fun at my hometown, it is an essential part of my story. You can’t really know me until you know that I grew up on a dairy farm in rural Iowa. And, really, it explains a lot. For instance, growing up on the farm explains why I can curse like a farmer. I heard words from my frustrated, farmer father that would shock sailors.

To take this a step further, I think that farmers are much more creative in their swearing. For instance, while your average cusser might say, “You fucking bastard,” which does have a nice punch to it; a farmer would say, “You pencil-dicked fuckwad.” Much more creative. Sometimes, a situation would require simply a list of all the curse words one could think of; for instance, when a cow would step on a farmer’s foot you might hear: “Fuck, you mother-fuckin’, son of a bitchin’, bastardless, chickenshit…shithead, damn it, shitfaced cow!” I’m not sure what some of that even means. I just knew to clear the area once the cursing list started.

My mother, on the other hand, was a patriotic swearer. Her favorite phrase was, “Shit! Blessed America!” or just “Blessed America!” Me, however–I have taken to using biblical references such as: “Son of a bitch, Zaccheus, and all the Apostles, too. Damn it.” I have been known to also give Jesus Christ several various middle initials. (i.e. H. F. T.) I guess the middle initial just takes it up a notch. Which initial I give just depends on how pissed off I am.

I have always been curious about cuss words. True story. When I was about 10, I was still a cussing virgin. So, I went into the bathroom, locked the door, stared into the mirror, and said, “fuck.” Scandalous. I had essentially popped my cursing cherry. And, it was all over. I was a closeted swearer from then on. I have always been well-behaved in public. It is the other side of growing up on a farm–learning manners. But, when alone, I practiced it intensely.

I do think that I have a thorough curse word vocabulary. However, I am always interested in adding new phrases to my repertoire. I also like the funny phrases that people have created to use as alternatives. Like saying, “Shut the front door!” instead of “Shut the fuck up!”

So, if you haven’t been too offended to read this far and are willing to share some of your most creative phrases… fuck it…let’s hear ’em. Come on, I know you want to share…leave a comment. Let’s see who has the most creative cursing vocabulary!

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Posted in Family, Food for Thought, Humor, My Life, The Early Years

The Social Life of my Grandma

Posted on June 14, 2007 | 2 comments

I adore my grandmother. (G-ma, as I call her) I really do. She was a huge influence on me while I was growing up. Strike that. She still is a huge influence on me. Because frankly, she has taught me that I still am growing up.

This is probably my favorite thing about G-ma. She doesn’t subscribe to the notion that one is growing until they reach the top of “the hill,” and then they preceed to start dying for the remaining 40+ years of their life. She always lives her life like she hasn’t reached the pinnicle yet.

Now, to paint a better picture of G-ma, I should mention that she isn’t one for sitting around her house waiting for her family to stop by so that she can impart her wisdom. No. She imparts her wisdom by living her life. After her first husband (my grandpa) died, she kept living. She went to hockey games with her friends. She took trips to Mexico with her friends. She just kept enjoying life. And, she was open to another relationship–even after 40+ years of marriage to the same man. When her second husband of 10 years passed away, she still believed that life wasn’t over just yet. She is currently dating another wonderful man.

I went down to South Texas last December to visit her where she stays for the winter. And let me just say, I was amazed by what I experienced. These people (mostly 60+) were living just like a bunch of 20 year olds. It was truly incredible. For the four days I was there, I went to 4 “jam sessions” where they “hang out” and dance and sing and eat and “goof off.” Yes, 80 year olds goofing off. I also went about town meeting all of G-ma’s friends. We ate. We shopped. We ate. We shopped. I was totally and completely worn out. Yet, it was a life-changing time for me.

I realized that life is not over ’til it’s over. A lot of things can go wrong in life. You can achieve your goals. You can survive your losses. But, most importantly you can choose to keep existing or you can choose to keep living. G-ma’s choice is clear.

I want to be just like G-ma when I get to my eighties. Well, with one qualification. I probably won’t wear any cute matching denim outfits set off by a nice shade of lipstick and a dark brown perm. But, then again, I just might.

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Posted in Family, Food for Thought, Humor