December 23, 2009 · 3:00 AM

Etiquette for Awkward Situations — Vol 3: On a Plane

Today I board a flight to LA toting both my carry-on luggage and hopefully, my best behavior.  I always brace for the impact of encountering airline passengers; when people are treated like cattle, they can hardly be blamed for reacting like baboons.  Here, rules of engagement for the most ruthless form of travel.

Pre-flight
Awkward Situation: Despite the airline calling for people to board by seat rows, 150 people are clustered around the gate, jockeying to get to the front.  You seem only to have two options:  shove your body through the masses like a teenager at a Jonas Brothers concert, or literally be the last person to board (forfeiting your access to overhead bin real estate).

Solution: Follow traditional traffic rules.  My brother-in-law, Phil, (who will be traveling with us tonight) works at Swerve, a driving instruction company.  He says most people on the road should already know the common-courtesy rule of “Each one lets one.”  The same applies here.  As you move like so much human sand through the hour glass, let one person go in front of you and then someone else lets you in.  We hope.

Takeoff
Awkward Situation: You are finally seated and prepared for takeoff, when the person next to you reveals the undeniable fact that they are a Chatty Cathy.  Your eyes glaze over at the prospect of speaking for two hours with a total stranger whom you will never see again in your life.

Solution: Engage in minimal small talk until takeoff, wherein you pull a book from your bag and show it to the Cathy, saying kindly, “Have you heard of this author?  She’s supposed to be fantastic.  I’ll let you know how it is!”  And then promptly open it.

Beverage Cart
Awkward Situation: It’s your first official day of “Christmas break” and you and your friends are eager for a little yule-tide cheer — in the form of a beer.  Or wine.  Or cocktail.

Solution: Plane rides are not the time to party-hardy.  When you’re stuck in a stationary position and can’t even converse with more than the two people next to you, you’re not in a place to have too good of a time.  Just have one drink and pay with cash.  Order quietly so you’re not obnoxious.  Don’t ask twenty questions to see what brands they carry — check ahead of time by looking in the airline guide in the pocket in front of you.  Then raise a glass and cheers to a safe flight.

Switching Seats
Awkward Situation: The person next to you asks if you would please switch seats with their spouse so they can sit together — but said spouse is 15 rows behind you and in a middle seat.

Solution: If you can swing it for a short flight, consider it your good deed of the week and say you’d be happy to help.  If you are already sitting with your own spouse, kindly explain that you understand their situation but you would like to stay with your traveling companion.  Also, even if you aren’t traveling with someone, you’re under no obligation to move seats.

Bathroom Break
Awkward Situation: You’re practically bursting at the seams after four diet Sprites and two hours of resisting the urge to visit the dreaded airline bath-closet (how could we call that a room with a straight face?).  But there are three people already clustered around the stewardess area waiting their turn.

Solution: It depends on your seat.  If you’re middle or window, get up as soon as possible to expand the amount of time between disruptions of your seat mates.  If you’re aisle, wait until there is only one person or no line at all before hopping up.  Also, keep in mind that the people in the unfortunate seating of the last few rows of the airplane shouldn’t have to stare at your backside that hovers directly in their faces as you wait for the bath-closet.

Warm thanks to those of you who sent in great etiquette conundrums.  For those of you who have yet to inquire, feel free to ask about your awkward situation at wordsbecomeone@gmail.com.

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December 16, 2009 · 3:00 AM

Mas! Mas!

If I were a cheerleader, I’d cheer for Christmas.

Christmas has always been huge in my family — tons of decorations, celebrations, feasts, presents and Christmas Eve church services.  This year is the first Christmas I will spend apart from my family, and we’re a little sad about it.  We know it will be hard to be apart, but we’ll see each other several times before that day.

I’m using this time to examine my thoughts about Christmas, since Mike’s family’s traditions are very different from mine.  I’ve learned a lot about the history of Christmas through them and it’s given me much to consider.  I’ve learned that  Christmas shouldn’t have anything to do with Jesus or his birth, based on the fact that in the Bible neither Jesus nor anyone else says that we should remember His birthday (conversely, we are told to remember his death and resurrection) and in fact, we don’t even know His real birth date.

We can love and honor Christ apart from anything to do with popular holidays.  Rather than try to focus Christmas on Christ, they’ve explained, we should accept that the two have nothing in common and just celebrate it for what it is — good cheer, festivity, presents, family.  In essence, let’s take the Christ out of Christmas and let’s just have…mas.  In Spanish, that would be MORE.

And I’m always all for more.

In fact, I think I’m well on my way to more.  This December has already been decorated with several events that are indeed mas but have absolutely nothing to do with Christ.  Years ago (even last year) I would have felt a twinge of guilt for celebrating without focusing completely on Jesus, but now?  Bring on the mindless merriment!

Christmas Tree: To start our season, we got a tree.  Yes, it’s alive, and yes, it’s the same height as me:  five feet five inches.  We love our tree because it makes our home cozy and cheerful, it holds meaningful symbols (baby ornaments, second grade pictures of Mike, gifts from friends), and it delays us having to buy a new chair to fill the space it occupies.  (If you look closely, you can see a cross ornament…so I guess I haven’t figured this out quite yet.)

After all, Christmas trees were virtually forbidden by our colonial leaders in 1659, when a law was enacted that made any “heathen traditions” such as Christmas carols, decorations and trees a penal offense involving a fine.  We Rephs enjoy setting up our tree without paying a fine.

White Christmas: The same night that we got our tree, we attended “Irving Berlin’s White Christmas” musical at Seattle’s 5th Avenue Theater.  Two other couples invited us to dress up and go out on the town, and we thought nothing could be more Christmasy than the stage version of the Bing Crosby movie (which I had only seen once and Mike had never seen).  It was uncomplicated, plump, shiny and almost too cheesy to bear — and that was entirely the point.  “May your days be merry and bright” indeed!

Tacky Themed Dress-Up Party: Every year we are invited to a number of parties that require an ugly sweater, santa hat, or this year, 80’s ski gear.  The only thing 80’s ski gear and Christmas have in common is snow, I suppose, but we went with it.  The results speak for themselves.

Cirque de la Symphonie: Certainly the highlight of the Christmas season so far was attending the mind-boggling circus acts performed in front of a full orchestra playing classic Christmas favorites.  Mike took me and my sisters to Benaroya Hall and we all gasped our way through this stellar performance.  Previous to this evening none of us had seen a man in a handstand on another man’s HEAD with only ONE HAND.

The champagne at intermission didn’t hurt, either.

White Elephant Gift Exchange Parties: Two of these are on the calendar this year, one of which happened at my workplace — I arrived with a bathrobe and departed with two bags of candy.  Lame.  And what could be less Christ and more mas than giving gifts that are utterly random?  Myrrh and gold are not random; those gifts were intentional, I assure you.

I totally respect those who see Christmas as a holy holiday, because I do too, to some degree.  After 25 years it’s virtually an innate response.  But I love examining why we do what we do, and seeing if we can do it differently and still be honorable.

After all, when it comes to Christmas carols, for every “…the glories of His righteousness, and wonders of His love, and wonders of His love,” there are just as many “…oh bring us a figgy pudding, oh bring us a figgy pudding, and a cup of good cheer.”

As for me?  This Christmas I’ll ponder the wonders of His love — while sipping a cup of good cheer.

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December 9, 2009 · 3:00 AM

No Soup for You!

In the spirit of holiday feasting, it seems apt to share what is undoubtedly the most embarrassing incident of my life involving food.

It also happens to be the most degrading moment of my very first job.  I was 17 and working at Willows Lodge, a five-star hotel in Woodinville, WA.  I thought I was hot stuff because I wasn’t working at McDonalds or Jiffy Lube like other high school classmates.  (As luck would have it, this incident never would have happened had I worked at those places.)

You see, Willows Lodge serves lunch to its employees.  On my first day on the job I probably heard this fact twenty times.

“Oh and did you know lunch is provided?” one perky employee informed me.  “Isn’t that incredible?”

I didn’t know how to tell her I was a student in high school, an institution that also serves lunch every day — forgive me if I’m not thrilled.

“Oh but you don’t understand,” they’d tell me.  “This is lunch from the Barking Frog!  We get a gourmet lunch every day!”

Whatever butters your bread, people.  As long as it’s presented as a buffet, I’m not going to light fireworks of elation.

My job was as a customer services coordinator, which is a fancy way of saying I worked the front desk.  I checked people in and out, escorted them to their rooms, served as concierge, and booked reservations.  It was fantastic, because I felt like an established, working adult, despite having the face of a 14-year-old.

The job also came with loads of perks, like earning free spa services and free overnight stays on slow nights (I’d invite girlfriends for sleepovers).

I worked with a woman named Mary who was in her sixties, wore gobs of makeup (including fake eyelashes), gossiped incessantly, and had worked at Willows since it opened.  Due to all of these reasons, she was only allowed to work the phones, not the front desk.  She was like a television news anchor forced into radio: everyone knew why she wasn’t allowed on TV, except her.

Mary became my buddy because the people in housekeeping were bitter that I was given front desk, the front desk people didn’t think I was old enough to be there, and management…well, no one is friends with people in management.

Naturally, then, it was Mary who I gushed to about the recent Willows Lodge lunch I’d had, after turning my nose up at it for weeks.

“You guys weren’t kidding.  Lunch was fantastic!”  I told her.

“Wasn’t it?” she replied.  “Especially the garlic chicken.  I had two helpings.”

“I know!” I exclaimed.  “And the soup!  I can’t get over it.  It was so creamy and delicious, I hope they make that more often.”

Silence.  Mary blinked at me twice, then looked at the ceiling, thinking.

“Soup?  That’s weird, I didn’t see any soup,” she thought aloud.

“Yeah, how could you miss it?  It was down at the end of the buffet, in the metal dish,” I explained.

She slowly covered her mouth with her hand, a look of horror crossing her face.  Then she wheezed with laughter and could barely look at me as I stood there saying, “What?  What?” over and over.

“Ohmygawdohmygawd that wasn’t soup!  That wasn’t soup!  That was the gravy!!!”

I turned away from her and gasped.  No.  No. No, that wasn’t possible.  I did not mistake gravy for soup and eat it with a spoon.  I grabbed Mary’s hand and dragged her down the hall to the kitchen were we both ran over to the buffet and stared down into the metal tray.  Oh my gosh, it was a tray.  Who serves soup in a tray?  No one does, of course; it was gravy.

I felt my stomach turn in revulsion to the ounces and ounces I had eaten of what?  Pure fat?  Gristle and left-over meat parts?

I gagged.  Mary howled.

“So you actually scooped the gravy with the ladle into a cup and ate it?  Ohmygaw!” she exclaimed.

I grabbed her shoulders.  “Mary you can’t tell anyone!” I begged.  “Don’t tell a soul!”  Remember, I was a teenager and felt my reputation could be destroyed at the slightest slip.  I could hear the nicknames: The Soup Kid.  The Lying Luncher.  Gross Gravy.

Of course, being a mature adult, she swore secrecy.  And I, being a reckless teen, immediately told my parents when I got home that night.  I think my mother actually cried, she laughed so hard.  Just as I feared, Sam, being 13, didn’t waste time in coming up with nickname, which she still uses today from time to time:  Gravy Girl.

Perhaps I should have given that Jiffy Lube application a second glance, after all.

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