I'm Gonna Fly Your Friendly Skies, Damnit!

In today's session, boys and girls, we will be learning how to make the airlines work for you, and not the other way around.

A few summers ago, Melissa and I went to Phoenix together to attend a dance competition. We flew in on a Thursday, and were scheduled to fly back to Philly on a Sunday night red-eye.

Now remember, to Melissa, the times and dates listed on your ticket are just suggestions. They just ensure that you have a spot reserved on that airline, for sometime on some day in the future. Specifics are all negotiable.

(oh yes, that's Melissa. She dipped her toe into the dance pool on this trip)

When Sunday morning arrived, Melissa woke up feeling like she wanted to get home earlier. We'd had a long, fun weekend, complete with a staph infection...ooh, let me tell you that part real quick! A few days before the event I had gotten a blister while rehearsing. The blister was on the inside heel of my right foot, below my ankle. My partner and I competed on Friday night. The dance boots I wore to compete in were broken on the inside, and there was a hard piece of plastic from the heel support that was broken and bent right where the blister was. The competition lasted about 4 hours, and during this time, this shard of hard plastic was digging into my blister. Apparently this wasn't good for the blister, especially in combination with the sweaty bacteria that infests all of my dance shoes.

The pain was excruciating to begin with, but my adrenalin kicked in and I couldn't feel the pain anymore. Until the competition was over, and Melissa and I went up to our room. I tried to take my boot off, and the pain hit me like a wave. I thought I was going to throw up. I finally just yanked it off, and Melissa and I both gasped when we saw my foot. The blister had turned into an oozing red crater. The area around the crater was beet red and puffy and hot. Melissa immediately told me I needed to soak it in salt water. I said "Where are we going to get salt water?", but of course, she was already on the phone with the front desk, ordering salt and first aid equipment and a deep bowl or pot, and lord knows what else.

Within 3 minutes a bellhop knocked at our door with a tray full of everything Melissa had asked for. To be honest, I didn't even realize you could do that...just call the front desk and ask for random things. Melissa made me a a giant bowl of salt water, and ordered me to soak my foot in it. I can't even begin to describe the pain.

The next morning, I woke up with 2 red lines heading up my calf from the wound. Melissa said she didn't think that was a good sign. She called her mother, who is a nurse practitioner, and Miss Sharon said oh yes, that's not a good sign. She said if I started running a fever I had to immediately go to the hospital, no questions asked. Thankfully Melissa was there to keep checking me, because I usually don't notice that I have a fever until my temperature reaches over 103 degrees.

That night, there was a pool party. My infected foot had gotten worse, the entire side of my heel was puffed out and hot, and the wound was oozing thick yellow pus constantly. As we were getting ready (see my previous post for an idea of how that went), one of us, and I can't remember which one, suggested that chlorine might be a good thing for the wound. The other one heartily agreed with the idea; after all, isn't chlorine salt?? And yes, the thought of putting a staph infection into a pool filled with people did cross our minds, but as Melissa so eloquently put it, "That's what the chlorine is for! To kill staph infection!".



So we went to the pool party, and frolicked in the water. I believe we even played chicken a few times. We stayed in the pool for a good couple of hours.

The next morning when I woke up, a miracle had occurred. My wound looked and felt so much better. The red lines were gone. The swelling had gone down and it wasn't hot anymore. We were so excited that our Chlorine Cure had worked.

Anyway, there's your twofer. Now back to the original story.

Melissa wanted to get home as early as possible. So she called the airline (USAir, let me make that clear right from the start here), and asked if there were any earlier flights. They said there was a 1pm flight. She asked if there were any seats available. The person she spoke to said yes, there were tons of seats available. So we packed our things super fast, and got a ride to the airport.

When we arrived at the airport, and checked our bags, the attendant behind the counter said that there was only one seat on the flight. Melissa asked her why then did the person I spoke to on the phone tell me that there were tons of seats available? Of course there was no answer to that. She said the best she could do was give Melissa the last seat and put me on standby. I had never flown standby before, living by the skin of my teeth has never been my MO, but Melissa had done it thousands of times, and was the self-proclaimed expert at making it work.

So we headed for the gate. Once we arrived, Melissa started The Scan. The Scan is a process whereby Melissa evaluates strangers. It happens very quickly, as quickly as the cashier scans your gallon of milk, but the amount of information she can take in during The Scan is staggering. She can discern who is valuable to her and who isn't in 3 seconds.

She finished The Scan once her eyes landed upon a group of men in their early to mid 40s, who had obviously just had a golf weekend or something. They were joking and swapping stories. They became Melissa's Number 1 Targets. She said, "If there ends up being no seats available, I will get one of them to give you their seat". I just nodded. That's about all you can do in these situations.

So sure enough, they started boarding the plane and there were no seats available. I was getting nervous, the prospect of spending the entire day in the airport until my original flight left at 10pm was not exciting me. Melissa got up, and told me she'd be right back, and to "look sad". She headed toward Targets Number 1. I could hear her from across the room, she was telling them a sob story about how I had a sick child at home (I know, we're terrible) and how I really needed to get back to Philly as quickly as I could. I put on my best sad face, and did a really good forehead wrinkle. Would you believe not one of those guys was willing to give up his seat??!?! What has happened to all the gentlemen in the world???

Anyway, she came back, annoyed but not defeated. In fact, I thought I saw a little glimmer in her eye. I told her to go ahead and get on the plane, and I'd just wait and take our original flight back. I was fully prepared for her to leave, and I had no problem with that. Going home early was her idea anyway. But that's where I grossly underestimated the situation.

Melissa was NOT getting on that plane. And not only was she NOT getting on it, but she was going to make magic happen. She walked up to the counter, and in her insanely polite Southern way, let the person behind the desk know that we were not happy. We had been told that there were plenty of seats on the plane, had rearranged our entire schedule to make it to the airport in time, and now it was their responsibility to make something happen for us.

Well, sure enough, her sweet but unwavering approach worked, and they found us another flight. The downside was the flight left from California (LA, I think?). The upside was they were giving us first class seats on that flight. FIRST CLASS SEATS, BABY!! One of those motorized airport golf cart deals showed up, to whisk us off to the flight that would take us from Phoenix to LA. Once in LA, we'd have a 4 hour layover, and then we'd head to Philly. We had been given a printout that we were to take to the check-in area at LAX, and that would get us our first class seats on the plane. And of course, Melissa had gotten the name and rank of each person we had spoken to, and the names of everyone THEY had spoken to on the phone, just in case.

Well, when we landed in LA, and went to the check-in counter with our printout, the drama began. There was a man behind the counter, let's call him Larry. Larry was one of those play by the rules kind of guys. One of those if it's not specifically listed in my job description, my brain is not allowed to consider it. One of those if I don't have the right paperwork in front of me stating so, the sky is not blue kind of guys. In other words, Larry was mentally challenged.

Somehow, what happened in the computers in Phoenix didn't make it through to the computers in LA. So Larry was more than willing to set us up with two seats on the flight to Philly, but when Melissa told him we were promised first class seats, he balked. Larry was not authorized to give out first class seats. Larry didn't have such information on his computer screen. Larry was sure his lobotomy had no effect on his job performance.

Larry kept preaching that it was USAir's policy to not give out first class seats for any reason. Watching Melissa argue with him was a lot like watching a lion spar with a gnat. She very calmly presented names, phone numbers, data, spreadsheets, powerpoint presentations, but Larry wasn't biting. Melissa said "So what you're telling me Larry, is that USAir cares nothing about it's customers?". "We would never have flown here from Phoenix to get to Philly, except that the thought of being able to sleep in a first class seat slightly made up for all the inconvenience we've suffered today". I think she lost Larry at inconvenience. Larry refused to call anyone, he refused to get his manager, the only option we had left at that point was to go behind the counter and physically coerse him.

So Melissa finally lost her cool. Which looked something like this. Her eyes got squinty. Her lips pursed. Her pointer finger gots straight as an arrow and pointed right at the spot where Larry's soul would have been. And she says, ".......NOW I consider you unkind"...........and then she turned and walked away.

I grabbed my purse and followed her. She walked around the corner, where Larry couldn't see her. She looked at me and said "I needed to regroup, we're going back in 5 minutes". I let her regroup, and we went back to see Larry. The look on his face was priceless when he saw us returning. She and Larry got right back into it. She continued using her words with more than two syllables, and he continued nursing his lobotomy.

I noticed a man come through a door, into the area behind the counter. He looked like he was in charge. I caught his attention and beckoned him over. He asked how he could help us. Melissa was all talked out at this point (strange, but true) so I took over. I gave him the Reader's Digest version of our day, highlighting all of the key points. I said "In short, we came here to LAX because we were promised first class seats on this flight, and that's all we're asking for". He said "of course, if you were promised first class, we'll get you on first class". While he was entering the information into the computer, I couldn't resist a little jab and I said "Wow, Larry here told us that it's USAir's official policy to NEVER give out first class seats, so I really appreciate you bending the rules for us!".

As we rounded the corner with our first class tickets in hand, we did a little victory dance. We spent the next 2 hours sitting in an airport restaurant drinking margaritas, eating chips and salsa and watching movies on my portable DVD player, relaxing in the knowledge that we'd soon be sitting in plush wide seats, with flight attendants at our beck and call.

It only makes sense that my first ever first class experience was with Melissa. And was it worth all of that effort? I have to say, the amazing feeling I get when I've been through the trenches with her and come out alive and in first class is great, but I'd never make the effort to get that feeling on my own.



I've reread this and am very disappointed in myself. I know that I've left out really funny key points, but for the life of me I can't remember them. Maybe Melissa can comment and fill in the missing pieces.