Lessons in Flying
#1: They say that people seated in the exit row on airplanes must speak English, but it turns out, that’s not true. I know because I sat next to a hulking blond dude who responded to the question “Please confirm you speak English by responding with ‘Yes’ when I get to you.” After seven other people successfully said yes, Vlad looked at the flight attendant blankly, then said, “Da-di.” I don’t think that means yes in any language, but he was allowed to keep his seat.
#2: I saw a man digging through the recycling bin in the airport next to my gate. At first I thought he was homeless, looking for food, but then I smacked my head realizing homeless people generally don’t make it past security since they need both an ID and a boarding pass. Then I decided he was resourceful for using someone else’s newspaper instead of paying $20 for one from WH Smith. Now don’t ask me where I got that InStyle.
#3: The Boston-based flight attendant who helped us bounce back to DC on Friday deserves an A+ for enforcement. She made the announcement about stowing all portable electronica devices, then walked down the aisle, row by row, checking to make sure everyone had put them away. When she found people still using their phones, she said – with a thick Boston accent, “Really? Really? You heard my announcement and just decided to ignore it? C’mon. I’m an Italian mother. Don’t make me pop you with a spoon.”
Speaking of Boston
I was in Boston for a new hire training session. The last time I was there, I mistakenly tried to enter the classroom mid-session by quietly easing my way in through the room’s back door. Turns out, the door I’d eased open was to the EIS closet, rather than the classroom. Which must’ve made everyone who witnessed that wonder what technology I was trying to sneak up on. This time? No such idiocy.
There Goes MY Cordon Bleu
I tried to make polenta this weekend and now I’m considering buying a wrist brace. Have you ever tried to whisk cornmeal for 30+ minutes while you wait for it to firm up “until it begins to peel away from the edges of the pot?” I didn’t think so. It’s like stirring cement. Which is why I asked Alan to help. Although, he didn’t like the way I asked. Apparently it’s not funny to say, “Can you help me with this? I’d assume you’re better with repetitive wrist motions than I am.”
pithypants 
“Can you help me with this? I’d assume you’re better with repetitive wrist motions than I am.” Not sure my husband would think this is funny, either, but I spit my iced tea all over the monitor. Thanks.
“C’mon. I’m an Italian mother. Don’t make me pop you with a spoon.”
Classic.
Aaaaand I laughed out loud at the “repetitive wrist motion” reference. Nice. Also? He’s only mad because you knew.
The part I hate about polenta is that as it thickens, it spatters your forearm with magma-like gruel.