Lights Out at Project Enlightenment

Project Enlightenment's lights are out. Not literally, though they might as well be. It seems that those rumors flitting about in March about Project Enlightenment's budget cuts that the school board was squashing were actually right on. At the time the board told us to lighten up. John Tedesco, the board's most vocal newcomer and staunch conservative who's confusing politics with public service, even stated how much he values and supports Project Enlightenment.

Yet with a zip of a box cutter the budget's been slashed.

This isn't about politics. Let's not muddy what's best for children and families with political gain and pretenses of martydom and bootstraps and other such cliches. Children aren't political pawns. Education is a community value.

Hop over to Deep South Moms where I've continued my venting.

I Get Around.

Lest you think me a slacker, I figured I'd share some other tidbits I've been writing. While Dirt & Noise is my home in this web of a well, The Web, I do settle my boots to dry in other equally inviting spots. None, however, so out of OSHA filth and decibel level standards as this honky tonk.

From my Foodie Mama Outpost:
Check out one of my new favorite dishes that hails from my very own kitchen. Now beware, I don't really use precise measurements so don't curse me if you can't cook and muck this up with your own messed up teaspoons and metric conversions. If you just cook with your gut and trust your hunches, you'll serve up some splendid suppers.

Gnocchi. Butternut Squash. Mmmmmm.....


And those uber cool women at Silicon Valley Moms actually let lil ol' moi contribute to their regional blog, Deep South Moms. You'll see that I do an inordinate amount of bitching over there. It's all easier to swallow if I end each post with "Bless her heart."


Here's what I had to say about what I think is the worst part of parenting.

The Day My 6 Year Old Asked Me About Abortion

I drive by a particular Catholic church in my neighborhood almost every single day for one reason or another (mostly because that route leads to Target and Trader Joe's). Normally I'm a big believer in letting people believe whatever they want. While I am a vehemently opinionated soul, I do not use my breath to spew my ideals to anyone who will listen (As for this blog, you choose to come here, right? No prodding or payment from me. No payment for me either, for that matter.). I don't believe in proselytizing. I don't believe in incendiary messages spouted from soapboxes. I don't believe in subjecting children to hideously complicated adult paradigms.

What I believe is it is my job, my duty, my honor, to protect my children.

Please check out my post on Deep South Moms about what has me up in arms about what this particular church is doing to pollute precious, innocent minds.

Here's a hint:

No mother of a six year old should have to answer the question, "Mommy, what does 'abortion kills babies' mean?"

My Glass is Half Full. Of Ice.

I haven't seen the teens in about 10 years. I was finishing graduate school in Chicago then. That was my teensy skooch back to the East after eight year stints in Minneapolis and Madison. By teens I mean temps, natch. My own teen years were over two decades ago, and that's the tail end of the rotten pubescent, lemming, un self-aware, unconfident, dorky stuff that make one's teen years so memorable, despite how hard we try to forget.

The temperatures here in Raleigh are taking after stock market line graphs of late and taking a steep dive southward. I didn't move here for this. I remember many a winter not even needing a coat in these parts. It was a welcome change from the mummyesque layering I endured waiting for the bus on 44th Street in Minneapolis or the whip of lake wind chilling me inside out in Chicago. I never did acclimate, despite 10 years out there. Things weren't so bad in Madison because we lived in our own little version of Melrose Place so we rarely had to leave home. That, and we often indulged in Wisconsin's most notable export.

In light of all this frigid weather, folks in North Carolina remind me a lot of the good people of Minnesota. All they talk about is the weather. Instead of the usual "Happy New Year" store clerks remark this time of year (I'll give a week more before I start calling people on the importance of message timeliness.), they call out, "Stay warm!" as they bid you farewell. The neighborhood is quiet, eerily peaceful. No kids. No dogs. Um, why does it seem I'm the only one out walking my dog in these tundra temps?

I'm trying to see some silver lining here. Ice is silvery, right? I'm generally a glass-half-full kind of girl. If you find yourself whooping it up and need to be knocked down a few notches, gimme a call. My alter ego is Debbie Downer. I can make you cringe, cry, or croak in a matter of minutes. Mac Daddy is my optimistic counterpart. He sees the good in everything, which is highly annoying and makes me irritable as hell. I sure hope our sons don't inherit this trait and make their future wives ornery. Sometimes a girl just wants to look into her soap spotted empty wine glass and bitch.

It being 2010, a new year and a new decade and all, I've decided to try on Mac Daddy's disposition. I'm afraid it won't suit me at all but I'm going to give the old college try (Wherever does that term come from?! I surely don't want my boys to try half the stuff I tried in college!). Here's my first, if not feeble, attempt to see the glass half full.

Reasons to not hate the cold weather:

1. No snakes in my yard.
2. Ignored dog poop freezes and is easier to clean up. Granted, Mac Daddy is the often the one faced with this since I jet back inside as soon as Lark has done his business.
3. Children chat less when they are cold because the are busy experiencing chattering teeth.
4. It's perfectly acceptable to have dead leaves, grass, plants and such in one's yard.
5. Snuggling.
6. The Snuggie (never mind that I wear Deal's kid sized one that he got for Christmas).
7. No mosquitoes.
8. I don't have to shave.
9. Jeans and sweaters hide more dietary sins than tank tops and shorts.
10. Boots. Way better than flip flops.
11. Oysters are in season.
12. Beer gets cold quickly if you put it in a cooler on the patio.
13. It's cold and flu season, giving me a fine excuse not to shake hands with people.
14. Conversation common denominator makes it easy to talk to anyone.
15. Scarves hide hickeys (I mean, for those trashy girls who get those kissy bruises. Blech.)
16. Knee socks. (I know Denise at Eat Play Love has my back on this one.)
17. Hot Buttered Rum, Hot Toddies, , Hot Sake, Hot Cider, Hot Chocolate
18. Comfort food.
19. I get wear to that cute chenille hat and scarf set I bought ages ago. Be sure to compliment me profusely if you see me sporting it.
20. An excuse to chill out (pardon the expression) with a good read or a must-see flick.

So tell me, what makes the snot freezing temps more palatable for you?

A New Year's Eve Whine

The year was 2003. I was five months pregnant with Bird. We had bought and renovated an 80-something year old house. We were planting roots.

And then I got laid off from my job at an advertising agency. Funny how it's so easy to fire a pregnant woman, yet it's a stretch to hire one. I did get another job, though that agency was toxic, and I left soon after Bird was born. Our once comfortable life was beginning to crack a tish. The year proved to be bittersweet, with the sweet beating out the bitter.

Bird was a lovely, easy baby. He brought us so much joy and completely changed our perspective of the world. You'd never see me without a camera as I snapped every little milestone and cornerstone. I started my marketing consulting business (What, you mean you thought the words on this screen pay my student loans? Not by a long shot.). Baby Deal came soon after, 22 months after Baby Bird.

2004.
2005.

Our lives were complete, if not completely chaotic. We juggled two more house renovations, two jobs, two kids, one breast cancer scare, all on our own without the benefit of family. What could have torn me and Mac Daddy to shreds actually made us stronger. We became our own little hub, knowing it was up to us to protect and nurture this little foursome we call Family. well, we call ourselves The Curried Cheeseheads too as a nod to our mixed Indian and Wisconsonian heritage.

Every year since that fateful layoff in 2003 we have chanted on New Year's Eve, "This is gonna be our year." So far our mantra has failed us.

We haven't caught up to where our lives (and bank accounts) were. We've faced some scary illnesses, bid farewell to friends, battled some demons, lost our beloved pets, and buried a father.

Life's hardships are de rigeur. Our downs are not as low as others', and our ups are grander than most. But, there was so much left unaccomplished this year. So much stress. Too many financial obligations. Not enough time. Too little of everyone and everything to go around. I'm not complaining, though I am admittedly whining a bit.

I'm letting 2009 go with a sigh. A great big exhale.

Then I'll hold my breath for a moment. Count my blessings. Kiss my family. Cuddle my dog.

Inhale.

Welcome 2010. This is gonna be our year.

Dusting Off Some "Me Time"

The weekend here was positively glorious. Sunny, with a gentle warm breeze, sapphire blue skies dotted with whipped cream clouds, and my favorite temperature. 82 degrees. Surely you're not surprised that I have a favorite temperature?

Mac Daddy took the boys to the park to play some baseball Saturday morning. They gathered their gear, a cooler of snacks (that I admit to checking on the sly to ensure Mac Daddy packed the right stuff), and sunblock, thanks to my nagging (no word on if that was actually applied). Hugs and kisses, smooch smooch goodbye. Off they went, downright dancing down the sidewalk. My three boys, to whom I owe all this dirt and noise.

And then I clutched the powder room pedestal sink to keep from falling to my knees onto the cheap plastic stool and wept. Fat monsoon tears that I didn't even bother to wipe away. I gripped the sink to keep myself from giving in to whim and bashing the weathered pewter mirror in front of me. I stifled the bellowing scream bubbling up in my gut and let a snarl escape instead, a rather unfulfilling impostor.

No park for me. No breeze was to grace my face. I stayed behind at home.

Ah, the house to myself. Just me. Unplugged and Twitter free. Illicit, decidedly un-kid-friendly lyrics cranking at rock star decibels on the iPod, hot, strong coffee in my favorite travel mug and another full pot in the French press.

And me, hair swept back in a blue bandanna fished out of the dress up box, tattered purple tank tank top, supremely comfortable baggy jersey knit shorts, not a lick of mascara. Just me.

And a dustpan.
Broom.
Mop.
Murphy's oil.
Vacuum.
Sponges.
Rags.
Toilet bowl brush.
Stainless steel polish.
Method cleaner.
Dustbuster.
And those damned yellow rubber gloves.

You see, the only "me time" I get in my house is when I'm cleaning. Forget what I said before, now I regret firing my cleaning lady. First of all, cleaning my house makes me utterly irascible, while having a clean house makes me deliriously jubilant. The stream of pee around the bathrooms, thanks to two little boys and one big man, with poor aim, is enough to make me gag. You should hear me yell when I catch Bird leaning back to pee so he can (somewhat) aim and watch Kim Possible at the same time. He misses. Every. Single. Time.

And then there's all the dust bunnies.
Hair.
Fuzz.
Crunched leaves, twigs, and other signs of nature.
Sticky floors.
Crumbs.
Dust.
Fingerprints.
Hand prints in the least expected spots.
Toothpaste goop.
And all the usual suspects.

I. HATE. To. Clean.

The proverbial silver lining is this: I am all by myself when I am cleaning. That alone makes it more bearable.

No one is there to tug on me. I can pee in peace, whether the door is shut or not (and for the record, I have no issues with aim). I can eat three popsicles in one sitting, one in every flavor. I don't mentally tally up the constant chorus of "Hey, Mommy" in my exploding head. I don't have to endure knock-knock jokes or the Dragon Tales theme song. I don't have lunches to prepare or LEGO fights to mediate or bottoms to wipe or time outs to impose. There is no whining, bickering, yelling. The banshees have left the building.

And I am alone.

Me time.

Problem is, me time is not the same as time for me.

I suddenly don't feel so guilty about ignoring my family all day Monday while I curled up in the rocking chair on the front porch, with the ceiling fans on so I too could feel a breeze in my hair, to indulge in Twilight.

Sometimes I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard. The one where I had a God awful floral wallpaper border in my nauseously girly bedroom, battenburg lace curtains, umpteem throw pillows on my bed, two walk-in closets, a tiny balcony covered in AstroTurf, a wall of mirrors in the bathroom, my very own stereo, even though it was just a little Bose shelf unit, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The same apartment where my Sunday paper was stolen on a regular basis. The same apartment that smelled ever so faintly of a potion of cat piss, stale Swisher Sweets, and bleach. The same apartment where doing laundry in the basement required a chaperon. The same apartment where I was alone but never lonely. Alone. By myself. Doing whatever the hell I wanted.

When time was all about me.

Marriott is a Disgrace: A Loyal Marriotteer No More

Marriott has always been one of my favorite brands. It was a staple on my T & E reports from way back in the day when I traveled regularly for business. A bunch of us crashed at a Residence Inn somewhere near Alpine Valley all those years ago when we road tripped annually to Jimmy Buffett shows. Mac Daddy and I choose Marriott brands over any others on our family trips. Mac Daddy prefers a stay at any one of the Marriott family of hotels when he travels for work, which is more often than not. Even in my marketing consulting business I refer to Marriott as the gold standard of stellar brand architecture. I have been a loyal Marriott patron, investor, and fan. A veritable Marriotteer.

Once I even got a call from the office of JW Marriott himself after he received a letter I wrote condemning another hotel's lack of safety, cleanliness, and hospitality, while praising Marriott's. The call was timely and personal and cemented my love affair with the Marriott brand.

The love affair is over. And it is beyond repair.

Marriott is a despicable disgrace.

Bile gurgles up the back of my throat as I even say the brand name.

A woman, a mother of two, was raped in a Marriott parking garage. In front of her 3 and 5 year old children (THE SAME AGE AS MY SONS!). This mother was raped at gunpoint, with the rapist threatening sexual assualt against her children if she did not comply. That could have been me. Or you. Any one of us.

Instead of issuing an apology, offering counseling, or financial retribution, Marriott blames the woman for her own rape. Marriott recently issued a statement saying how there has been a grave mistake that has led the public to think it is unsympathetic to the woman, her children, and victims of violent crime. Read the full statement here...and prepare to dry heave.

I'm not buying it, assholes.

And that little blurb on your website about the Marriott culture, core values, and social responsibility. Bullshit.

Here's an excerpt:
"Marriott's reputation for superior customer service rises out of a long tradition that started with J. Willard Marriott's simple goal for Hot Shoppes to provide "Good Food and Good Service at a Fair Price"

• "Do Whatever it Takes to Take Care of the Customer"
• Pay extraordinary attention to detail
• Take pride in their physical surroundings
• Use their creativity to find new ways to meet the needs of customers"

"Attention to detail" and "the customer is always right" are mentioned in the company's core values.

Like I said, Bullshit.

I am so sickened that I can hardly write this post coherently. I shudder and feel slightly like vomiting every time I read another news story. And if I were to actually upchuck, I would package it up and mail it to Stephen Brown, one among many of Marriott's cadre of lawyers, and all the fat cat C-suite executives. Stephen Brown got paid big bucks to rape this woman again.

Apparently the safety and security of Marriott's guests is not paramount. And if a woman is raped by a lurking lunatic who had been hanging around the hotel parking garage for days (days!), the rape is clearly her fault. I mean, rape is always the woman's fault, right? Oh, those teetering high heels, itty bitty mini dresses, decolletage baring halters, gold hoop earrings, seamed lacey stockings, and such other attire that act as a sexual assault billboard are just asking for trouble, right? I mean, really, a woman should know better; that's what Puritanical bonnets and calico print rompers are for. We should all look like the queen of the Duggar clan, no? I mean really, wholesome women who are alert and responsible for their own safety are not raped. Only women who are negligent, preoccupied, or otherwise irresponsible can claim culpability for her own rape. The simplest and most natural sashay could send the wrong message and rightfully land a woman in the ER with a rape kit (for those counties that even have them!). We must really walk like androids just to be safe. Or so the Stephen Browns of the world would have you think.

Listen to me, and listen closely. Women are never to blame for the violence inflicted upon them. Being raped is NEVER a woman's fault. Under no circumstances. If you disagree, I beg you to read the moving, poignant, candid, and often frightening stories posted at Violence Unsilenced. These women, like this woman, are someone's mother, daughter, true love.

There is no going back to the way things were for victims of violence. There is an earthly shift. I know this much is true.


If you'd like to share your $0.02, please send your comments to Thomas Marder, the lucky bastard who gets to manage all inquiries regarding Marriott's vile actions. I encourage you to stand up against violence. If you are close to 5 women, chances are one of them has been raped.

thomas.marder@marriott.com

A Pedestrian Topic

Dear Walkers of White Oak Road,

Please do not glare at me as I drive along at the posted speed limit. Did I mention that I have never had a speeding ticket, much less a parking ticket, in 25 years of driving? I drive a small SUV, not a Hummer that hogs the road. The lanes are plenty wide for me. The yard services' trucks that regularly line the street consume all the space on the tiny shoulder that is smaller than Tinkerbell's haunches. I don't speed. I don't honk. I don't swerve. I drive to the right of the line and obey the speed limit. Always.

Yet you walk two, three, and even up to five in a row as if you are Queen Bees ruling the high school halls shoulder to shoulder. Plus, you push strollers (double joggers) and have a dog or two on a leash. Your posse literally takes up more space than my Highlander. I might curse you under my breath and keep my middle finger firmly in place on the steering wheel but I never honk or jeer. I do utter in disbelief that you'd be idiotic enough to take up all the room on a road as narrow as a neocon's mind.

But I see you, in your matching tennis skirts and visors, all turn in unison to glare at me as I drive by. Me, the one who's obeying the law of the road. Here's a tip to tuck in your tanned decolletage, don't walk two by two with a stroller and a dog on a road that has no sidewalks. I am all for pedestrian rights and respecting walkers, bikers, and the like. But generally there's mutual respect and a healthy fear of, oh, 3000 pounds of steel coming around a blind curve.

I happen to be a big fan of sidewalks and live in a neighborhood that has them. I walk with my sons in my neighborhood. I pushed their strollers and walked neighbor's dogs on those sidewalks. We decorate those sidewalks with chalk drawings and hopscotch boxes. We never stray from the sidewalks; that is a general tenet of city living. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people. There is no gray area here. One of the earliest lessons we taught our sons was to stay off the road and on the sidewalk. Danger! Danger! Danger!

From the myriad skateboarders, bikers, scooters, and ripsticks I see on White Oak Road (sans helmets!), I guess you are handing down road ownership to the next generation. Is this a symptom of the general sense of entitlement plaguing America these days or are you really that clueless? Let me reiterate, if the road doesn't have a sidewalk, is narrow, and is peppered with blind curves, don't walk on it. If you must walk there, walk against traffic so you can see what's coming and by all means, move to the freaking side when a car passes. That means walk single file, gather your troops, and squeeze in tightly.

You might own one of those big fancy houses but you're a fool if you think you own the road.

Sincerely,

An Irritated Driver Who Doesn't Want to Play Frogger

Pennies for My Thoughts: I Accept Paypal

Twitter is but one way for me to find a home for the parade of non sequitors that trample across my brain. My blog, this little verbal hut for my thoughts, is another way I channel all that rolls on the hamster wheel in my head. And so today I bring you the latest round of cerebral confetti flitting about in my brain.

Money with no taste is a shame. Money with no generosity is criminal.

If a woman's work is never done, why is a man's?

Who's making all those hoochie clothes for 10-year old girls? And more pressing, what parents are buying it?

I need a family vacation. But this I mean I need a vacation from my family.

Why are 4, 5, and 6-year olds riding in strollers? A mere three blocks.

Why are those same kids sucking pacifiers? On the way to grammar school?

Why doesn't all the mud tracked into my house stay in the mudroom?

Can someone explain Kate Gosselin's hair to me? Is it an upsidedown mullet? Her stylist must be a beauty school drop out.

Freelance is a misnomer. No wonder I'm not getting paid.

Reality TV has been redefined since I saw the Planet Earth series.

Why is control a character flaw?

The Little Couple?! I'm not sure if I should tune in or look away.

Queen Bee popularity contests don't end. The B just stands for Bitch now.

What exactly is Uniqua?

And why the hell do the Wonder Pets talk in annoying baby talk? Isn't Noggin supposed to be educational?

A perfect playdate means a playmate for Deal and Bird and a playmate for me. George Clooney is preferable.

What's worse: kids who don't get along but moms who do or kids who get along but moms who don't?

Three men with beers standing around a Weber kettle grill. Only one is wielding a spatula. Who says stereotypes aren't true to life?

Bra Makers Take Note

My new bloggy friend San Diego Momma inspires me every Tuesday. 10 minutes. 250 words or fewer. One letter of complaint.

Dear Bra Manufacturers,

Must these contraptions be so f-ing uncomfortable? Seriously, wires that dig into my belly shelf, bands that squash my squishy parts, straps that slip off when the wind blows, and cups that crinkle in the wash do not a decent bra make. And don't get me started on the sizing. I worked at Victoria's Secret one summer after college. I know what shenanigans you people are up to.

A bra's intent is to support and shape breasts. Breasts of all women, regardless of age, size, or state of motherhood. Why is it that the only bras that seem to fit are the cute little microfiber ones made for the AAs out there? I'm a solid B, and nothing fits. Nothing. I've been to the German matriarch of the lingerie department to be professionaly felt up (er, fitted) at Nordstrom. I half expected her to whip me with the seamstress tape hanging around her neck. She steered me to the Wacoal section. You know, the $60 bras. Was that Boob Frau on commission?

I'm just asking for a bra that is actually as comfortable as my microfiber Calvin Klein seamless undies. Must looks, comfort, and functionality be mutually exclusive? Let's consider technology today for a moment. We can collect dirt samples from Mars and help a man give birth to a baby girl.

Why are we so rotten to our breasts? Surely we owe them more than you offer.

Uncomfortably yours,

Momma Dirt & Noise






If you want to read a real letter of complaint I wrote a while ago, take a look here. Warning: it's long.

September 29, 2006

Gerard J. Arpey
American Airlines
333 Amon Carter Boulevard
Fort Worth, TX 76155

Re: Customer Feedback

Dear Mr. Arpey,

Is American Airlines so successful that the company is ready to bid farewell to an entire segment of customers? Does the customer matter at all? If you’re trying to discourage families with children from flying on American Airlines, you’ve accomplished your goal. Just note that you might want to rethink your “Customer Service Plan.”

Customer Service Plan
American Airlines and American Eagle are in business to provide safe, dependable, and friendly air transportation to our customers, along with numerous related services. We are dedicated to making every flight you take with us something special. Your safety, comfort, and convenience are our most important concerns.

I was flying with my two sons, ages 3 and 15 months, from Chicago’s O’Hare to Raleigh/Durham on Tuesday, September 19 at 12:35 PM. Since my husband had to stay on in Chicago for business, we chose a direct flight for the sake of everyone’s sanity and comfort. It was our first time flying as a threesome, though we have traveled across the country extensively as a family. My boys are already seasoned travelers and like many children, they are fascinated with planes and pilots. They were excited, not wary, of the trip. I, on the other hand, was wary. I prayed for timeliness, good behavior, cooperation, and the kindness of strangers.

As an über-prepared mom, I packed all the essentials and tricks to keep the boys safe, fed, clean, and occupied. Now imagine this, I am a five foot tall, 100 pound woman carting a lot of gear for the flight – stroller, backpack that was stretched to the max, and a child’s backpack full of toys and books, not to mention two small kids in tow. The boys were both well dressed and well behaved – model citizens to make a mom proud.

We normally fly on Delta, where the service and help have been impeccable. Someone is there to help us get situated, fold the stroller, chat with the kids, and even hold the baby if necessary. Even from my days as a frequent business traveler, Delta was my carrier of choice. Call me spoiled, but I had grown accustomed to such stellar customer care. And yes, I choose my words wisely; I mean care.

My experience on American Airlines was quite the opposite. There was no chitchat with the kids or offers of help. Sure, not everyone likes children, I didn’t either until I had my own, but I expected some grain of care and assistance when a mother is traveling alone with two small boys who are helpless on their own. And keep in mind that my children were cooperative and well behaved.

Here’s how my American Airlines experience played out:

1) I managed to get through security with two children in tow who, like I, had to take off their shoes and be cajoled through the metal detector. As you can imagine, it was chaotic trying to get everyone’s shoes back on, setting up the stroller, repacking the laptop and bag that were opened up for screening, and reloading everything. The security personnel was incredibly patient, helpful, and friendly. They helped me set up the stroller and engaged the boys in laughter while I got things settled. Since security was my first stop on this journey, it was encouraging to get through with so much help. I commend O’Hare’s security team for being both thorough and friendly.

2) When the flight was boarding, my three year old said he had to go to the bathroom. Zone 3 was boarding, but we were in Zone 5. I asked the gate agent if we could board early so I could take my son to the bathroom on board the plane. Her curt answer was “You have 15 minutes before the gate closes.” Not quite understanding her point, I asked again if we could board. Keep in mind, time is of the essence when a recently potty trained three-year-old says he has to pee! The gate agent again, more curtly this time, said, “I told you. You have 15 minutes.” I was dumbfounded! This lady was not going to let me board early with two small children, one of whom had to use the bathroom! Luckily we rushed to the bathroom and made the flight in time. Even strangers were gasping at the gate agent’s reaction.

3) Once on board, I was offered no assistance getting my kids situated and buckled in. Note that the flight was not full, and I was the only one traveling with children. And by the way, I purchased three seats for our family to allow the most comfort for fellow passengers and us. For the wellbeing of my children and all passengers on board, I planned to travel during my baby’s nap time. He was sleeping soundly over my shoulder just before take off. I was holding him securely with both arms wrapped tightly around his back and waist. Note that a rear-facing infant is the safest position for car travel so I figured the same must hold true on a flight.

The flight attendant woke up my child and made me turn him around for take off. Needless to say, he was cranky (who wouldn’t be if you were suddenly jarred from a much need slumber?!) and could not get back to sleep. This left me with a cranky baby on my hands, and the plane got an earful of whimpering for two hours. Of course I want to honor safety first. I take no issue with doing whatever the rules dictate to follow safety guidelines. If indeed facing forward is the safest, I should have been the one to awake my son and try to reposition him. Instead, he was startled awake by a complete stranger in his face.

4) When the flight attendants brought out refreshments, I asked for a small bottle of water for the three of us to share. She gesticulated pointing to the whole plane and rudely said, “I only have a large bottle of water for the whole plane.” Every other flight I have taken provides small individual bottles of water so I didn’t think I was asking for anything special. Then I asked for one small cup with no ice. Then the flight attendant accusingly asked, “So you didn’t bring your own cups?” What ?! I did bring cups of milk for my children but was unable to load up on anything but essentials for this trip. Like I said, I’ve always had small bottles of water on every other flight. So, in the end we got one cup of water with ice.

The cart was gone before I could ask for a cup with no ice as I originally requested. Now imagine balancing this ice and water filled cup with a squirmy baby on my lap. I was trying to give my children a drink without spilling. Most importantly, I was trying to keep my laptop dry, which is the one thing that kept my three-year-old entertained, quiet, and well behaved for the duration of the flight.

5) After we deplaned, I was waiting for our stroller. And by the way, my three-year-old thanked the flight attendants and pilots without being prompted by me – another model citizen moment to make a mom proud. We were still waiting when the last people left the plane. The flight attendant asked me why I was just standing on the jet way so I explained we were waiting for the stroller. She shrugged and did nothing. The guy who brought out the jet way ended up going downstairs to get my stroller. He opened it up for me and apologized profusely.

Not one flight attendant or crew member was helpful from the gate at O’Hare to the jet way at RDU. In fact, I sensed hostility towards us from the beginning. My children were well behaved except for some fussiness from the baby. There were no meltdowns, screaming fits, whining, or uncontrollable crying. There was admittedly non-stop chatter from my three-year-old until we could turn on a DVD, but that is to be understood by anyone who has experienced the curiosity and wonder of a child. Fellow passengers were courteous, understanding, and even helpful. The kindness of strangers was underscored, while the rudeness of paid professionals was disappointing.

Is this the brand experience your big marketing dollars support? Are utterly poor service and rude behavior the hallmarks of American’s brand promise? Do you see no equity in your brand after all these years? Is it really just about dollars and cents; are people (customers!) out of the equation? So much for lifetime customer value (remember, my children are already frequent flyers, and their mom is a marketer).

I won’t choose or recommend American Airlines again, even if that means I forego a cheaper fare. The bulk of customer compromises just aren’t worth it. I’m going to stick with Delta, who never fails to deliver at every customer touch point. And believe me, everyone I know will hear an earful about this travel experience. Hopefully you can make amends to welcome other families traveling. “Something special in the air” takes on a whole new meaning now.


Regards,
Ilina
Mother, Seasoned Traveler, Influencer, Marketer


PS
I’ve sent this letter to Delta too so they know they’re doing something right.



cc:
Isabella D. Goren
Daniel P. Garton
Ralph L. Richardi


Jerry Grinstein
Lee Mackenczak

The Outcome:
American Airlines sent a form letter (postcard, actually). Several months later I got a $100 voucher with no letter or instructions for use. Turns out I had to redeem the damn certificate at the airport. A customer compromise even when it's an apology (lame as it was)!

Delta's president Fed Exed a handwritten note and two remote control airplanes and T-shirts to Bird and Deal. I love that the shirts were printed in retro airplane graphics instead of Delta branded merchandise. Still have those planes in the toy box. Still love Delta.

Venting. Ranting. Blubbering.

Brawny Man
Has anyone else noticed the new Brawny man? He is less Paul Bunyan than the guy from yore. He's still wearing the flannel shirt and thermal shirt, but now he looks more doofy than well, brawny. He reminds me of the cute guy casually sipping the foamy head off his draft Bud (no imports for this fella) at a local joint somewhere in Wisconsin. He seems approachable, affable, and earnest. He's the kind of guy women have fantasies about and secretly wish their husbands smelled just a tish like the rugged earth too. The flannel shirt is a nice change of pace from her husband's oxford cloth button down that he sports in various shades of blue. Upon closer inspection, the hot rugged guy at the bar doesn't own a single book and only watches FX or the strong man competition on ESPN 2. Then the eye candy dissolves into nothing but doofus. That's what the new Brawny man is to this girl. Couldn't the fine folks at Georgia Pacific channel my friend Erik instead? He looks fine in a flannel shirt and even has a brain.

Branded
It is pretty apparent to my faithful readers that I am an Obamaholic. I have refrained from bashing Hillary but I cannot hold out any longer. I abhor her. She was my candidate of choice at first. I was really pumped about a woman in the Oval Office. She is smart, driven, strong. I'm not actually sure when the tides turned for me. I was on board with her policies and plans and thought she was getting an unfair shake in DC all these years. Now I can't stand her. Hillary is a brand, not unlike Tide, Cheerios, or Rachael Ray. The public buys more than what's on the inside. In fact, Kraft mac and cheese continues to fare poorly in blind taste tests, but consumers pay a premium for the brand. We often don't even know when we feel an emotional connection to a brand. The noodles in the box are a commodity. Let's face it, so are politics. We vote for the whole package, inside and out. We vote for a BRAND in the same way we pay top dollar for one. I think brand Hillary is killing the democratic party, making the fissure as deep as the one our overall country faces. How can any brand preach unity when that brand itself represents anything but?

Stuck
You wanna know what I really hate? Fruit stickers. Must every piece of produce I buy be decorated with a sticker or two or five? I know I'm buying an organic Gala apple. I don't need separate stickers that tell me so. Organic! reads one. Gala! barks another. Local! reads one. How much waste could we reduce if we banished all fruit stickers? Cleaning off the gummy stuff is not as easy as you think, not to mention it's maddening. Have you ever bitten into an apple only to realize the little piece that you can't manage to chew up is actually a damn sticker that you forgot to remove?

Sounds bytes
A random list of what's making me crazy:

The mom who is busy on her cell phone being snarky about someone else while her kid is kicking sand in my son's face at the park.

Older kids who think it's OK, cool even, to teach Bird and Deal about guns. Older as in 9; old enough to know that a 4 and 2-year old should stick to T-ball and digging up earthworms.

Parents, committee members, people in general who don't contribute in any way, shape, or form. Would it kill you to bring in some store bought bagels to school?

Gas prices. Have I mentioned how much I loathe the Bush administration?

Shedding. My Persian cat leaves a bit of her wherever she wanders.

Fuel surcharges that double the cost of an airline ticket. Just when you think kayak.com spits out a good fare, you realize that the extra charges kill you.

Mosquitoes. Both Bird and I are suffering from the welts that the little buggers inflict. Poor kid has scratched clear through to the stratum licidum on his leg.

What's eating you these days?