Apple Juice

One day I was doing a beverage service on a crowded plane. Early on, I ran out of ginger ale, apple juice, orange juice and Sprite. I reached the very last row of the plane where a gentleman was rocking out to his iPhone ear buds, really not paying attention. I knew he wanted a drink because his tray table was down.

"Would you like a drink," I asked after I finally got his attention by wiggling my fingers over the seat back in front of him. He jumped.

"Apple juice."

"I'm so sorry, but I'm completely out."

"Apple juice," he repeated.

"It's gone." I held up the can.

"Apple juice," he said again, perplexed. He pointed at the can.

"I'm out." I shook the can to signify it being empty.

Again he pointed. "Yes. Apple juice."

"Its empty."

Finally, giving up on the idea of him understanding or taking his ear phones out to hear me, I completely crushed the can between the palms of my hands and set it down on the cart. I didn't say a word. People around us stared.

"Oh," he said, looking sad. Then he brightened up. "Orange juice."

Egos

I've known many people in my short life. Some of them feel the need to lift others up. Others, the desire to stomp them under foot. There are a wide variety of reasons for this behavior characteristic, as any psychologist or FBI profiler will tell you, but what it all comes down to is the human ego. 

I once dated a helicopter rescue swimmer for the US Coast Guard. There were barely more than 300 people in the world with that title when I met him (for the third time - we knew one another as children). He was one of the first rescue personnel on the scene after Katrina hit New Orleans, and he once saved Cindy Crawford's husband from drowning. A pull-up, push-up and surfing enthusiast, his ego ranked up there within the top 10 I ever met. He freely admitted to it. He was one of the egos who enjoyed lifting others up - of making the most out of not just a bad situation, but of any situation. Noodles, wherever you are, your kindness will never be forgotten. You pulled me from a dark and lonely place. 

I once met and secretly dated an A-List celebrity. Not many people know, and only those I trust to never share my secret  ever have a full name to go with this story. He made multiple millions per movie, was worshiped like a god by teens around the world and owned homes in some of the most beautiful places on earth. He could have his pick of women (yet he chose me) and he had a beautiful, if delusional, life. He was a tad bit crazy, and he had an ego, but it never got the better of him. He believed in helping those he knew when he felt they truly deserved it. He lifted others up. He believed in dreams. He believed in himself. And he believed in me. 

I've known one particular man for the past 12 years of my life. While to some degree he struggles with self esteem, he genuinely had a great positive outlook on life and his ego even occasionally needs to be put in check. By himself. But he's not famous. He's not a rescue diver or miracle man or someone others worship. He's a genius. He's ambitious and original. He's funny and kind, smart and talented. And several times he's picked up the pieces of a shattered heart. He has more of a right to an ego than anyone I've yet to meet. The untold amounts of time and attention he has given over the years to people and passions are a powerful testimony to the kind of person he is. 

But egos, for the most part, are bad. People with those egos belittle others, not because it makes them feel better about themselves like the high school bully, but because they genuinely feel as though they are more important than those around them. 

A woman on an airplane once tried to belittle me one day because she could afford nice things, like her pride and joy real Louis Vuitton handbag she didn't want to place on the floor. She said I didn't understand because I'd never be able to afford one being a "sky servant" as I was (her words, not mine). It turned out my watch was worth more than double what her bag was. 

I knew a man who thought he could control me and treat me horrifically because I loved him. His ego got the better of him, thinking I wouldn't be able to resist his charms when he was sober or not angry. Fortunately, my conviction and stubborn streak were more powerful than his charm or ego, and I escaped - barely. 

But the "dream crusher" ego was among the top three egos I ever knew. 

He was no celebrity. 

He was no hero. 

He was no genius.

He was no billionaire. 

He was no charmer. 

He was nothing more than someone who grew obsessed with his OWN dreams and fantasies. He destroyed the dreams and goals of others when he didn't get his way. He was a soul-sucker, yanking the dreams away from people he claimed to care about as he went. He tried to destroy me, and he failed, as so many did before him. 

But his ego brought him back. His ego fed his obsession. Again and again he had to have the last word. Again and again I ignored him. I never replied. 

Obsession kept him returning. 

Ego made him keep going. 

But I'll provide the ending. 

Never, EVER stalk a woman who knows your phone number, criminal background, credit card info, home address and the names of each skeleton in your closet.

Blue Memory

For a while, I lived life as if nothing inside me had ever changed. I went about my daily life. I wrote stories and blogs, started new books, worked often and ate dinner with friends. Eventually the visual memories began to fade. I no longer saw those blue eyes every time I closed my own, staring at me, smiling, only a pillow away.

But then he showed up in my life again. It was only for a brief moment - but those memories came to life once more. It was as though all that time had not passed. Everything was renewed. It wasn't the same, and yet it was.

Now I have a new vision when I close my eyes - but it's always been of his blue eyes.

Not a Redhead?!

Blonde. I hate it.

(Not that there's anything wrong with blondes. It's just not me. Last time I was blonde it was for a Halloween costume.)

In random conversation with the Captain and First Officer today, we were talking about mechanical delays. We had a few so far on this trip, and our days were stretched long while our nights stretched thin and sleep stretched to near nothing. Another warning came up before we began to taxi and we had to stop yet again.

"What is it with you two," the Captain asked of us both. "You're cursed or something."

"It's not me," I complained. "Redheads are touched with luck!" I quoted what others had told me of Game of Thrones.

"Redhead?" the first officer chimed in. "You're a redhead?"

"Well, yeah!"

"Oh," he said, perplexed. "I thought you were a blonde with your highlights."

I'm never getting highlights again.

Ode to the Passenger with Earphones

Something to drink?
Apple juice.
It's empty.
Apple Juice.
It's empty.
Yes, apple juice.
It's still empty.
Apple juice.
The can is crushed.
He points at the can.
He nods. Apple juice.
Now it's upside down.
Oh.
I'll take orange juice.
No ice.

Thank you.

Inspired

When I write, it's because I'm inspired. But writing itself inspires me. Writers block never comes. There's always a story to tell, a snippet to share, a laugh to be chortled and a tear to be shed. There's always something to be written.

I sat alone amid tall palm trees lit up by rope strands of twinkling white lights this morning before the sun even came up. It was my time - time to relax, NOT to check all of my social media outlets for messages and notifications, but to listen to my music, to reflect on the day gone by and the one yet to come. It's my time to think, to listen, to notice - to be.

Not everyone has those moments. Not everyone knows how to function in long moments of solitude and silence. At one time, I was one of those people myself. But now I thrive in that environment. I crave it. On fact, I require it. If I don't get it, I can get quite cranky and frustrated with daily activities. I think more people would too if they discovered the beauty in the silence and the calm within the still. Things take a different shape.

The long fingers of the Palm frond stretch out into the sky, seeming to reach their black tentacles toward the stars, hoping to ensnare one and nestle it among the lights still twinkling at it's base. It's greedy, that Palm. There aren't yet enough lights - it needs and wants more. Just as I need and want more stories, more words, more thoughts - MORE.

I don't crave riches or jewels. I don't crave food or drink. I don't crave the stars like the Palm, neither do I crave the moon like lovers do. I crave only life and all it has to offer. That may seem like too much to some, but life is what I write about. If I don't live, I don't write. If I don't venture out, I have nothing new. I'm left with the lights twinkling at my base. I must keep reaching for those stars like the Palm does, reaching out to take just one more until there is no reach left to me.

Life is like that. If you find something you want, you MUST reach for it. Reach for it and never give up until you've gotten what you seek. There are so few things in this world worth reaching so hard for. Life. Inspiration. The stars. Reach for them all. Eventually, they reach back.

Confused Accents

People on airplanes always ask where my accent is from. I admit, it's an unusual one. It's a wide combination at this point of a variety of places I've lived, but when I'm at work the most prominent one is Scotland. It's not 100% natural when I do a thick accent on the plane but it's certainly convincing enough for Glaswegians to ask what part of Scotland I'm from. If I can fool the natives, I can fool anyone into thinking I'm originally from there. But that's not why I do it. In fact, it's not even what I answer when people ask where I'm from. I tell them the truth. My accent is so confused, even it doesn't know where it's from. It's a combination of Scotland, Arkansas and New York, paying tribute to my parents and the mixed heritage they passed down to me, as well as to my own adventures abroad. I hated the life I was secretly living in Scotland, but I loved the people, the accent and the culture. I even loved the food and I've been craving a good sausage supper from a chip shop for almost three years now. But most of all I loved that accent. I loved listening to it. 

I do the accent because people listen. 

That's right. When I make my announcements on the plane, I do it all with a Scottish accent. Most people guess me to be from Ireland, which is an entirely different accent all together; soft and lilted. But I've only ever spent four days in Dublin and I didn't get to do all I wanted to then. Someday I'll get back there. But someday will come AFTER I get back to Scotland on my own and see what I never got to see - Stirling Castle, a distillery or two, Loch Ness, several of the better known Highland castles and the Isles. 

When I say my announcements, I always do them by the book, word for word. But people have heard those a million times. They don't listen anymore. On the Bro, it's important that they listen in order to know oxygen masks are in the center aisle, not above their heads. There's only one exit up front. There's one also in the back. Two over the wings. But how do you make people want to listen to something they think they've heard a million times? With an accent. 

Every single flight someone asks "where are you from?" I always smile and I always say the same. 

"Everywhere." 

And THAT is the truth.