Da Weekend

I got back yesterday from a weekend with my grandmother in Long Island. Fuhgetaboutit. I went up Friday afternoon via Southworst airlines because it only takes 40 minutes from BWI to Islip/MacArthur airport. I’ve done this flight more times that I can count, but Friday’s experience was unique for me because it was the first time I’ve had an all guy flight attendant crew. These guys weren’t the wispy, lispy, queeny kind of flight attendants though. Oh no. These guys were all middle-aged and paunchy and, as best as my gaydar could tell, they were straight. They were all from Long Island and very Joey Buttafuoco-esque and I thought maybe it was some kind of halfway house work-release thing because it just seemed so odd. When Dominic, the lead flight attendant, was going over the instructions about seat belts and emergency exits, his accent was so Commack/Sunken Meadow State Pkwy that I was fairly certain that we were flying in a Boeing IROC Z28 and landing on the L.I.E. right next to the freakin’ Commack Multiplex Cinema complex. He told us there would be no drink service because the flight was going to be very turbulent the entire way to Islip and that they (the crew) would remain seated for the flight. I don’t get nervous flying, but this wasn’t something I really wanted to hear. In a strange way, I felt safer knowing that Joey Buttawipo and his associates were our cabin crew.

The extremely turbulent flight was nothing compared to the scariness of the L.I.E. at rush hour in the pouring down rain with my grandmother’s 85 year-old boyfriend behind the wheel. He was a pilot during WWII and flew B-17s over Germany and then was a career fireman with the FDNY, so basically he’s a little bit crazy and a lot fearless while driving. He was tailgating everyone and changing lanes constantly. My grandmother, who grew up in an FDNY family, was yelling at him saying he was driving like he was on first alarm. I was in the backseat with my seatbelt on, too afraid to look out of any of the windows. Let’s just say I had a few cocktails once we got to the retirement village.

I love my grandmother’s retirement village. It’s so relaxing and quiet and the breeze always seems to be blowing. I can never sleep when I stay there though. I think it’s too quiet at night. I kept hearing noises outside when I was trying to fall asleep and then my heart would start racing.* I turned the lights off and on so much my first night there that it must have looked like a rave was going on in the village. I completely creeped myself out when I realized I was being watched by all of the little tchotchkes in the room. For the most part, my grandmother’s house is decorated in lace-curtain Irish chic, with a hint of IRA flair. She doesn’t have a lot of tchotchkes around the house, but she has just enough to make you nervous when you are trying to fall asleep or taking off your clothes to get in the shower.

Now I’m back in Baltimore in my tchotchke-free house, sleeping soundly with the inner-city soundtrack of sirens, hooker fights, and push-to-talk phone conversations playing in the background.

* I was still hearing the same noises the next moring and discovered the source was the tree in the front yard dropping acorns everywhere. I think I’ve been in the city too long.