Tag Archives: bloody mary

Airborn on the Cheap

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Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Extremely Cheap Airlines Flight 1234, nonstop to Denver. We apologize that your flight was delayed by three hours, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. Not to worry. Your crew killed the time in the Goose Tavern just across from your gate, so we are all raring to go. Well, maybe a bit tired, but nothing a little cocaine won’t take care of. The captain’s in the bathroom even as we speak.

Anyhoo, I have some really good news for you folks this afternoon. We have managed to fit a few more rows of seats into your airplane by providing absolutely NO leg room between rows. Well, to be fair, that’s probably better news for us than to you. Be that as it may, here we go people: Criss Cross, applesauce. You can do it! Cross those legs!

The above announcement wasn’t actually made on our flight home from Chicago Saturday afternoon, but only because the powers-that-be of the discount airlines haven’t yet thought of the so-called Criss Cross Applesauce Solution. By the way, if you are a baby boomer without grandkids, I will inform you that Criss Cross Applesauce is what we used to call sitting Indian style. Changing what that style of sitting is called is political correctness based on the presumption that Indians probably never sat that way.

As it is, the amount of legroom between seats on both Frontier Airlines (which we flew TO Chicago) and Spirit Airlines (which we flew HOME to Denver) is laughable. My legs are about as short as they can possibly be without having my own reality television show and I was unable to cross them. And trying to pick up something you drop on the floor of the plane? That’s not going to happen. Poor Bill, and poor anyone else with normal-sized legs.

Still, Bill and I flew from Denver to Chicago and home again for just over $200 for both of us. At the end of the day, provided I’m not flying more than a couple of hours, I’ll put up with gnawing on my knees for a cheap fare. It is worth it in the end.

imgresEach time I fly, something happens that makes me think back to the golden days of travel. The days when you wore a dress instead of ripped sweat pants and a dirty t-shirt. Days when travelers were given a little meal served on a tiny plate featuring a chicken breast, soggy broccoli, and a roll that had been baked when dinosaurs walked the earth. Remember the little lukewarm salad? How could the salad be lukewarm, yet the meal be cold? But I digress. This time, the thing that made me stop and go “can this be true?” happened on our Frontier flight to Chicago. It was mid-morning and I did something I occasionally do. I purchased Bill and I each a Bloody Mary on the plane. I won’t linger on the part in which I had to fumble for my wallet in the minute space between my legs that straddled my carry-on bag. Persistence won out, and I finally handed the flight attendant my credit card, thinking all the while, “Well, at least I don’t have to leave a tip.” Oops. Too soon. Because yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, there was a line to leave a tip for the flight attendant. Apparently the days of flight attendants’ disdain at being called waiters- and waitresses-in- the- sky are over. I only left 15 percent given the fact that all the flight attendant had to do was hand me a little bottle of vodka and a can of Bloody Mary Mix. He didn’t even hand me a dish of Chex Mix.

One day before I die, I want to travel first class. I’ve never had that luxury, and it’s definitely on my bucket list. But I don’t want to waste my one-and-only first class ticket on flying someplace close. No, I will wait until I am flying to Hawaii or Miami, or maybe even Europe. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law recently flew to and from Australia first class. They had beds, my friends, beds in which they could stretch out and actually sleep. The last time Bill and I flew to France, I was sitting next to a Frenchman who needed a bath, and Bill was sitting next to an American tourist who spent the entire flight barfing into her little bag.

First class, and that’s a promise.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Come Fly With Me

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I took my first airplane ride at age 17 or 18 or thereabouts (I can’t even remember where I was flying to or from). Since that first airplane ride, two things have never changed.

First, I absolutely detest flying. It scares me to death. My sister Jen shares my fear and, together, we’re a pair. Flight attendants see us coming and immediately begin writing their letters of resignation. We were flying to Phoenix from Denver one time on Frontier Airlines and turned on the little map on the television that shows the plane’s current location. We were nearing Phoenix, so the plane was heading straight south. Simultaneously, Jen and I both GASPED out loud because we believed the downward facing airplane indicated imminent plummeting. We should never travel together. It’s not good.

But, despite this dislike of flying, I love airports. I love all of the activities and the people hurrying and scurrying to catch planes. I love the shoe shiners and the electric carts that haul people back and forth.  But most of all, I love eating at airport restaurants.

bloody maryThere are several reasons for this. Eating at an airport restaurant makes me feel like a grown up. Despite my 61 years on earth, I almost never do. Feel like a grown up, that is. When sitting in an airport restaurant or bar, I always order a Bloody Mary, even if it’s 8 o’clock in the morning. Especially if it’s 8 o’clock in the morning. Because it’s ok to drink vodka with your scrambled eggs as long as there is tomato juice involved. And finally I love the clientele at the neighboring tables. Always on their cell phones closing million dollar deals. They have their laptops open and, unlike me, they aren’t playing mahjong. They are checking their emails from their Very Important Clients. Or at least that’s what it looks like to me. Sometimes I want to just open up my laptop and click on my keys to make it seem that I, too, am doing Very Important Work.

And no matter how high my credit card balance is that month, I happily fork over an arm and a leg for a BLT and a Bloody Mary. It’s what grown ups do, after all. Of course, many grown ups have expense accounts.

Yesterday as soon as Bill and I arrived at the airport, I told him I salmon bltwanted to go to the Denver Chophouse Restaurant at the airport. I love the Chophouse, having eaten at the one in downtown Denver on many occasions, particularly if someone else was paying. But their salmon and white cheddar mashed potatoes are one of the few things I miss about working downtown.

We sat down, and the first thing we did, of course, was order a Bloody Mary.

“Our Bloody Marys are doubles,” the server told us dubiously, as she checked out my jeans and sweater and compared them to the business suits sitting next to us. “Will that be okay?”

“Hell yes,” I responded. Remember my fear of flying?

Well, it was no surprise to me to see the prices of the food items on the menu, and I could guess just what those double-shotted Bloody Marys were going to set me back. But I soldiered on, because I wanted those cheddar mashed potatoes.

Here is a copy of our bill….

restaurant bill

Fourteen dollar Bloody Marys. But they were goooo-ood.

One last thought about flying. I started flying somewhere around 1970. I distinctly remember that women dressed up to fly. A skirt and sweater or a nice dress. You simply didn’t wear the comfortable clothes that folks wear today when flying. I mentioned this to my sister Bec recently, and she reminded me that when she started college, young women dressed up for class.

My how things have changed.