Enough with the Penguins!

Dear Shawn,

Tonight, I was watching Blue Planet 2 with my mother when they showed penguins. Mom made a cute little noise and looked over at me with the sweetest face. We watched and listened as we learned about chinstrap penguins. She noticed that in the shot of what looked like a billion black and white birds, that they were all facing the same direction, which was into the camera, certainly for the sake of the show. (Who wants to see the backs of a billion chinstraps?) She wondered why this was. Thinking maybe for the warmth of the sun, or some mind-numbing fact that perhaps penguins have a built-in compass and always face (insert direction here), I replied, “So they could look into the camera.” Her failure to laugh at my funny made me wonder if she didn’t, just perhaps, believe me.

Then she turned to me with a serious look and asked, “How did you get into collecting penguins?”

“Really?” I replied, as I waited for her to laugh, or something, to show that she was kidding. No, she was serious. This is the point I might say something about her age, and how people start to lose it when they get older, but I just turned fifty a month ago, and lately, it seems like I can’t remember anyone’s name. In the past two days, I’ve forgotten the names of Robin Williams (that comedian who died a few years ago), Nicole Kidman (that beauty from down under who I used to call my wife, but she just didn’t know it), Kevin Costner (that guy, who played the NASA boss in that movie we watched last night) and a few others I’ve already forgotten again as I write this letter. So I have no room to kid Mom for forgetting why I started to collect penguins, over thirty years ago.

She asked why the big sigh, and I reminded her that this is probably the question I get asked most often, usually followed by, “Do you mean real, live penguins?” to which I love to retort, “Yes, I keep real, live penguins in a huge refrigerated pool in my back yard, which is full of the fish they need to sustain life. You know you love me for my sass! Of course, Mom knows I don’t have live ones, so this time I was spared.

For Mom, I pulled out the shortened, abridged version: In high school, I loved Opus the Penguin and Fleetwood Mac. I had ten, then twenty, then fifty, and at around two-hundred, I decided to go for the record.

“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.

“Yeah, their Rumors album had penguins on it and they had an album named Penguin.”

She gave me a “Hm” of approval and went back to Blue Planet 2, which was now telling us about the walrus of the Arctic. Then she asked, “What are you going to do with all of your penguins when you die?”

“I’ve told all of my friends that when they leave my funeral, everyone has to take about a dozen or so with them to remember me by.” She thought this was a good idea.

“Well,” she said, “you sure have enough.”

At over 4,000 penguins, I sure do. I may need a few more friends, though!

Secret Codes

Dear Shawn,

Going to the airport is so much fun. I have always enjoyed doing so, even before I became a flight attendant. I love people watching. I love plane spotting. I love the architecture of a well-designed airport terminal. The large windows make for great storm watching, or just enjoying takeoffs and landings on a clear day.

After I got my job at Mother Airline, my mother asked me about something she had observed when making a change to her ticket. I had noticed it, too and I’m sure many others have. Mom wanted to know why it takes the agent so long to make changes, “What is all that typing she is doing?” She had this whole comedy routine about dealing with the agent in the airport, complete with her mimicking the typing motion with her hands.

“Hi,” Mom would say as she reached the imaginary counter. “I’d like to see if I could change to a window seat.” The agent would take the ticket and begin typing.

The agent would ask a simple question, and there would be more typing. “Do you want towards the front of the plane, or back?” Type, type type. “Are you checking a bag?” Type, type, type. Wait. Type, type, type. Wait. Glance up and back down. Type, type, type.

Mom would ask, “Are they writing a letter? Are they writing to their kids in college? Letters to the editor? Working on a book?”

Mom’s comedy always made me laugh, but what I found out with this job is that the computer systems used by the airlines are so antiquated, that every entry requires a code and then the information. It’s not like a windows-style computer, where you just enter or click. In fact, there aren’t even mouse devices on their computers.

Talk about brain exercises, to look up my work schedule for the month, I have to remember a six-digit code: ‘dsplof’. This pulls up a line of code with spaces. In the spaces I input my file number, the month and base. At the end of the line of code, I enter, and then my schedule for the month comes up. Want to write a flying partner? That starts with ‘bldnot’. To pull up an upcoming flight- ‘dspid/’. Want to know who I’m working with- fltlof. Lots of codes. Nothing but codes. Every flight attendant has stashed away somewhere, and more likely in more than one location, a list of codes needed in order to survive the behind the scenes aspect of flying the skies.

Good times. I’m thinking maybe I should actually go write Mom. See you soon.

Domesticated Old Man

Dear Shawn,

I recall a conversation where you mentioned that you had never purchased a tablecloth, which I thought was funny since I joke about you living like a college student. I’d just moved to Houston and bought a new table. While in Santiago, Chile, I discovered an awesome home store that had the prefect tablecloth.

Even though I had lived in similar fashion to a college student until recently, there had been numerous occasions in my past when I’ve bought tablecloths. I’ve owned other tables that needed them, and I’ve bought seasonal ones for parties I’ve thrown- you know, a black one for my Halloween party, a red one for my Yule Celebration, and when I was president of the dorm in which I lived in college, I once bought a fleet of them for a dance I hosted. Actually, I doubt fleet is the right term for a metric ton of tablecloths. Also, it wasn’t really a metric ton, but I’m from Texas and strictly adhere to the Texas tall tales mandate on those of us from the Lone Star State.

Remember the time I bought a set of towels for you? I felt terrible for ripping your towel that you let me use, the one that must have been twenty years old, and finally gave way as I attempted to dry my back. I knew you’d never buy a new one, so I bought a set for you, because that’s the kind of friend I am. I hope you are enjoying the new towels. Now, thanks to you, whenever I buy domestic things for my new home, I think of you and how rare it is for you to shop for domestic items.

This week, I finally went out shopping for furniture; yeah, I’ve been living like a college student...only in my formal living and dining room. I found both a couch and a table at the local Star Furniture. Knowing how excited I am to finally furnish these rooms, imagine my grandmother’s! I’m sorry that you must have no idea how exciting it is buy a brand new couch and dining room set. Not used furniture from Craigslist or rescued from the dumpster, as I’ve done in the past (you should have seen the first couch I ever owned!).

Now I feel so much older than those college student days. There’s nothing more adult than having to wait for your furniture to be delivered. It’s going to feel like years!

Savings and Loan

Dear Shawn,

Last year, just before the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve, I heard an idea on line about saving money for one’s emergency fund. The idea was to save all the singles. At the end of every day, any singles you had left in your wallet, you should stash them away. Of course, I use singles so much, I didn’t think this would work very well for me. And no, I don’t use them on dancers at those places near the airport. I use them for tips for the van drivers and hotel staff, so I didn’t want to go with that plan, but I did want to try something.

Instead of singles, I decided that for 2017, I would pull out any fives I had left. At first, I avoided spending fives at all. It seemed like I was putting away far more than I thought I wanted to save, so after a month or so, I just spent whatever, and any time I got home, any fives in my wallet were pulled out and saved.

Now that it’s 2018, I went into my stash and found that I had nearly $500 in fives. I thought this was fairly impressive. With no effort, with no financial hardship, I suddenly have access to an easy half thou! (Is that a thing? Half thousand, like half a million? I guess a half thou for me is the same as a half mill for someone like Warren Buffett.)

So, the savings continues. I continue to pull fives out of my wallet for 2018. But something odd is happening. It seems like lately, all I’m getting back in change are fives. Last week, my schedule had me buying breakfast and lunch more than usual. I’d give a twenty and exact change and instead of a ten and five, I’d get three fives. This has happened so often, that in just one month, I’ve already got $80 in my coffers!

I can’t help but wonder if they aren’t printing more fives, as if saving them all of last year created a shortage. Don’t you wish I had that kind of influence on the US economy? I sure do!

Panchos

Dear Shawn,

Driving home from some errands today, I passed by one of the few remaining locations of Panchos Mexican food buffet restaurants. There was a day these restaurants populated Houston like crazy. In the mid seventies, a family outing to Panchos was so special. We didn't get to go often, but I was thrilled.

When you walk into a Panchos, you go down the line and pick whatever you want- enchiladas, tacos, burritos, chile rellenos, tostadas, beans and rice. Then there was a bar with chips and salsa and sour cream and anything else you needed. The fun part for a kid was that when you wanted more of anything, there were these little Mexican flags on the table that you would raise. You'd tell the server what you wanted and in a few minutes, there it was, served on a searing hot metal plate housed within a cool-to-the-touch plastic outer plate.

When you'd had your fill of crispy and cheesy goodness, raise that flag again and they'll bring dessert: fresh, hot sopapillas with honey and cinnamon sugar. These fluffy little squares of fried dough, the Mexican equivalent of beignets from New Orleans, were things dreams were made of! You know how much I've always loved honey.

When I moved back to Houston a few years ago, I passed by a Panchos. I had nearly forgotten about them and was happy to see that the sign is still the same after all these years. I looked up their locations on line, half hoping there was one near me and half hoping there wasn't, because if there were, I'd blow up like a balloon from eating there so often!

That is how I found out there are very few locations left, and none near my house. This meant that going to one would either take a very special trip, just like when I was a kid, or a combined destination with errands in another part of town.

It took a few months to find me back in the part of town where the nearest Panchos was located, so I skipped breakfast and hurried through my errands so I could get to Panchos for lunch before the crowd.

Walking in, it was much as I remembered it- dark interior, the buffet line, the campy Mexican outfits on the staff, and the beloved flags ready to be raised high for seconds and thirds and sopapillas! I sat down at a table and wondered if the quality of the food was this bad back in the seventies and I just didn't realize it because I was ten. In thinking back on the seventies, I don't know that they had yet to invent all of the preservatives and plastics they put in foods these days to drive down prices. Surely, the food back then was better.

While not a terrible meal, after all, you get what you pay for, right? ...well, let me put it this way- I've been back in Houston for three years and I've not been back to Panchos. Sure, part of that is that a fifty-year old guy who needs to lose a few pounds has no business going to an all-you-can eat Mexican food buffet, but it's also that I now prefer quality over quantity. And perhaps the worst part of the recent experience was that they now use fake honey. Who uses fake honey???

Now, don't get me going on a pizza buffet, that's an entirely different story all together!

Over Delivered

Dear Shawn,

Just after takeoff, a woman asked me if I had a pair of headphones that she could use to watch a movie. Don't you just love the old standards of flying? Dinner at twenty-six thousand feet and a movie.

We were going back to the US from South America, and Mother Airlines boards many items round trip. So if they use too many supplies on the flight down, like all the apple juice, red wine or headphones, we have very little for the return flight.

Before takeoff, we'd distributed all of the headphones that were available. There were no more left. I, however, being the good cub scout I was brought up to be, am always prepared. I had a pair stashed away. However, what I told this woman was, "Well, we've given them all out, they didn't board enough for everyone - let me see what I can do." After a minute, I returned with a pair and handed them to her. She thanked me profusely, saving her mind from certain insanity on a  nine-hour flight without the ability to hear her movie.

This is a little thing I like to do, and is something I learned from my days as general manager of the Harley dealership. I call it, under promise and over deliver. I got it from my father. He, of course, was the opposite.

We would get shipments of motorcycles from Mother Moters, and there would still be a lot work to be done. It would take our service department a few days of work before a new motorcycle would be ready to roll down the pavement. A bike could arrive on a Monday, and my father would promise the new owner that he could have it on Wednesday. The service department hated this. The customer would, too, when Wednesday would hit and his bike wasn't ready.

My tactic was different from his. I would tell customers that the bike would be ready on Friday. Sure, there was often a bit of frustration. Back in the late nineties, there was often a wait of a year or more for a brand new Harley-Davidson motorcycle. In the mean time, while their bike was being readied, we'd invite them to the dealership to see their new steed of rubber and metal, hang out with the other new bike owners, maybe place a few orders for parts and accessories, and take photos of their bikes being worked on in the service department.

The part about my job that I loved the most, however, was making that call on Thursday morning, a day earlier than they had expected, and informing them that their bike would be ready that afternoon.

It's a little something that I still enjoy. Need a pillow? Oh I don't think we have any left, but let me check for you. The specialty beer? I think I gave the last one out a few rows back, but I may know where one is hiding. It makes them happy, feel special and like I really went above and beyond for them.  

Gold Dust

Dear Shawn,

There was a dark night I walked around campus listening to Fleetwood Mac's Gold Dust Woman on my Walkman (yeah, still the 1980s!). I'd heard the song a hundred times, but that night, I really heard it...for the first time.

I listened to it over and over that night, while paying attention to the moss hanging from the trees near the dorms, to the stars hanging in the sky, to the breeze flowing through the pines making whooshing noises.

I listened to it time and again that night, hearing the wails, the moans, the emotion, the sorrow and the story. The song simply stole me and I was enthralled at its beauty and majesty. I became gold dust that night. It's never left me. I guess it never will.

Something had been bothering me, some sort of college stress. I don't remember now, I'm sure it was about a test, or some sort of social pressures. I was involved in politics, much as I was in high school, so maybe that was weighing heavily on me. I grabbed my Walkman and that tape and just walked around the darkened campus, listening to Rumors. When I got to Gold Dust Woman, I must  have rewound it tem times that night.

"Wake up in the morning, see your sunrise, lovers go down.
Lousy lovers pick their pray, but they'll never cry out loud...follow those who pale in your shadow."

Today, this song is still one of the highest on my list. Of course, most of Stevie's songs are. There is nothing like the Goddess of Rock and Roll! Her CDs are the only ones that have been in my car for over three years, now. That almost seems wrong. I know how to pick up the pieces and go home. I've done it so many times.

Wait for the Beep!

Dear Shawn,

Sometimes I come and go to work so often, it seems that I pass myself in the employee parking lot, sort of like the old donut commercial. I recently arrived and pulled into a parking space right next to the bus stop, a good thing, since it was raining and cold out. I was thinking I'd just seen me pass the other way going home.


I had to send a text. I parked, sent my text, and looked around wondering who was sitting in their car with the engine idling. I had some time, and was in no rush to get out of my car and into the cold rain still falling. I figured others were doing the same.

Seeing a bus approach, I raised my rear hatch and ran to the back to get my bags out as it neared. I lowered the hatch, and tried to lock my car with the fob as I ran through the rain to the waiting bus. I didn't hear the beep, so I was standing on the bus, still trying to lock my car, but no beep, no light flash. Normally, by now, the bus would have begun moving to the next stop. There were a few people, mostly ignoring me. I apologized and told the driver that I needed to get off the bus to see why my car would not lock. She said she would wait. How nice!

I go back to my car and see steam coming out of the exhaust pipe. I nearly died! I'd left my car running! That was the sound of the idling engine, it wasn’t someone else, it was ME! I turned off the car and it locked, then returned to the bus silently, hoping no one had noticed my folly.

Good thing I had made sure that the car was locked and not just left for my 3day trip with my car running and not locked! Would it still be there there when I got back home? Would it still be running? How long does it take to drain a tank of gas in an idling car? And I'm so happy the car has the safety of not locking with the engine running. Maybe that WAS me I saw driving home. I wish! It was quite obvious that I had not brought my brain to work that day!

Friends, Lovers or Brothers?

Dear Shawn,

When I go to Honolulu, there is a wall that separates the beach from the bar and restaurant at the Surfrider hotel. It’s under a huge Banyan tree and a few palms. I like to sit here and watch the sun rise and set. I awoke about an hour before the sunrise and made a Kona coffee with a shot of Bailey’s and went to this wall. When I arrived, I was the only soul in sight. That didn’t last very long. I ignored the others and sipped on my wonderful coffee drink.

Soon, two young men approached and sat near me on another part of the wall. They were young and handsome, made me think of you. The younger, thinner man wore a Cuban-like hat. The taller man with curly hair looked serious. I pretty much ignored them, like the rest of the life forms walking on two legs, until an older woman came walking up the beach. She wore a swim suit with a black, flowing top and was obviously old enough to be their mother. She took a seat next to the hatted man. The serious man with curls pretty much ignored her as he looked out to sea. So I played a new game, "Friends, Brothers or Lovers?”

The man in curls broke down and spoke to her. She was lively and fresh, for it being so early. Soon, they were joined by a taller man of the same age as the woman, clearly her husband. He also went to the side of the man with the hat, again, furthering my assumption that he was their son. So, was the taller man in curls a sibling, as well? There didn’t seem to be much warmth, however, he did converse with the father more than with the mother. If they were brothers, he was much more reserved. If friends, obviously not as close. If lovers, who knows? Not me.

Finally, another couple joined the party. The woman was a chunky woman of Asian descent, in her twenties and cute. She was with a young man about the same age as the other two. He was slender and tall and wore a strange shirt that seemed to have come right out of the 80s, with squares and circles of pastel hues. A camera was passed to the man in the hat for a photo of the couple, so I thought they may have been romantically inclined, but soon, I could hear the slender man speak and he sounded very effeminate. The came continued...only, friends, siblings or lovers?

The two young men eventually set off together, walking along the beach, side by side. I looked to see if they held hands or anything. I saw nothing but an occasional glance by the curly man at the man in the hat, who had now taken his shirt off. The younger couple didn’t seem to act like they were romantically inclined, as they sat on the wall with a few feet separating them. The older man had wandered off, only to return with coffee and danish for those who remained. I do love to people watch and try to figure things out.

I never got the full story on this little group. The young men didn’t seem to resemble one another as brothers, and other than the occasional glance by the man in curls to the man in the hat, there were no signs of a romantic nature. But then again, I don't look like my brother! It appears that in the game of “Friends, brothers or lovers,” there was no winner.

Coworker

Dear Shawn,

I’m working with a guy I’ve known since I moved to Houston. A few days after my move, I went to a party hosted by a fellow flight attendant. I met quite a few other flight attendants there, including a couple who I found out a few months later had broken up. Seems he was having an affair in Lima, Peru. She found out, they got a quick a divorce, and now they both have new significant others. He’s married the woman, she’s moved in and has a business with her new boyfriend.

I never knew them all that well. After the party, she and I became friends on Facebook. One day she asked me about my job, which was surprising to me, since I thought she was a flight attendant. Turns out she wasn’t, only he was. We’ve remained friends and she decided on another path that kept her feet more firmly on the ground.

Her ex and I were never as close. He knew we’d met at that party, but since we never got into a deep conversation and we never became friends on social media, we didn’t have any other connections. We see one another at work often, and always smile and say hello. I don’t know that he knows I’m on-line friends with his ex, and I never mention a word about it to him.

The first few times I saw him, he was friendly and jovial. He was fun to talk to, was a caring individual and it was difficult to see how he could cheat on his gorgeous wife so easily. The last few times I’ve flown with him, he seems much more withdrawn and reserved. He never joins when the crew goes for drinks after our flights to South America and he doesn’t seem to engage others in meaningful conversation during flight. He likes to work the galley, which tends to keep him away from people, for the most part.

Recently, we worked together again, and it wasn’t until after the initial service when I found out that his wife was on board! I thought it odd that he wouldn’t mention this in briefing with the crew before we left, as most would done, “Oh, hey, I’m bringing my wife, husband, sister, friend, on this flight today...”

I know this is petty, so I’ll apologize in advance, but as nice as she was, she was a bit homely- certainly not as attractive as his ex. Must be great in bed, as some say! He warmed up when she was around, but then got very rigid again when she was gone. I saw them together in the hotel at lunch. I approached to say hello. She smiled back at me and had pleasant eye contact, but didn’t really say anything. Odd, but then I realized that she mustn't speak English well.

On our flight home, I asked him where his wife was. He said she was staying in Peru. I asked if he had another trip down, back to back. It’s not uncommon for a flight attendant to do that- have two trips, and the other party remain for the day or so in between, and then they fly home together after the second trip. I was correct. She would be staying with friends. 

Turns out, she was from this South American city. Now, he didn’t say as much, but I assume they met on one of his layovers. That must be how the affair started. I wondered how long he had been dating her, going to South America, before his ex wife caught on. Such a shame.

It was nice to meet her and put the pieces of the puzzle together. I still like to fly with him, and I hope I get to know her better. I'll just not mention it to my other friend.

What the Hoo?

Dear Shawn,

I never knew what he was saying. For nearly 30 years I’ve wondered what he was saying. Then the song came on the radio the other day on my way to the hotel in Honolulu. All evening it was stuck in my head, one of those ear worms that are even more annoying than normal because you don’t know what he’s singing, so you just sort of keep singing the words you’ve made up all these years. Only, I didn’t realize I’d made them up. I just thought he was cray-cray. Peter Cetera’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry”.

It sounded like he was singing, “After all the hoo you’ve been through.” What is hoo? Is he too delicate to say Hell? “After all the Hell you’ve been through...” Why would he not be able to say Hell? Why does it bother some people to say Hell? It’s just a city in ancient times where trash was burned. It’s a fictional place in the Bible, not a cuss word. What the hoo is he singing?

With our smart phone technology, I broke down while on the beach, ignoring my personal no smartphones on the beach policy, and looked it up. Alas, the actual words are, “After all that you have been through.” How did we ever live without smartphones all those years ago?

There have been other songs I’ve not known the true words to. Sometimes, I find out. A year later I will hear the song and will have forgotten what the real words were. That’s frustrating.

Then, there are the songs I never want to sing the real words to. I give you my favorite- the Cool Aid Song (from Carol King’s “It’s Too Late”:

Oh, it’s cool-aid, baby, well, it’s cool aid/ And I really did try to make it/ But something inside the mix just died, and whatever you do, don’t taste it/ Oh noooo!

I know. Stick to my day job.