One of our more infamous crew member orders. This is just a crew order, mind you. Not a passenger ... a pilot/flight attendant/first officer/etc.

1. Soft tortilla wrap with (organic scrambled eggs, organic cheddar cheese, generous
amount of black pepper, extra virgin olive oil), 2 oz. honey, 16 oz. organic plain
yogurt, organic banana bread, organic banana or strawberries
2. Organic black beans & well-cooked brown rice (NO ADDITIVES such as onions
or peppers), lightly steamed broccoli florets, 2 oz. extra virgin olive oil, 2 hard-boiled
eggs with yellow mustard, 16 oz. organic plain yogurt, 2 oz. honey, organic banana
or strawberries
3. Organic quesadilla with (organic chicken and cheese only), lightly steamed
broccoli florets(separate container), 4 oz. sour cream, 16oz. organic plain yogurt,
2oz. honey, organic banana or strawberries
4. Organic cheese stuffed shells (not vegetable) with marinara sauce (may substitute
organic cheese lasagna or raviolis), lightly steamed broccoli florets(separate
container), 16oz. organic plain yogurt, 2oz. honey, organic banana or

The Best Medicine

Nine long hours after our family lost a loyal, beloved family member, I finally laughed. It wasn’t a hearty chuckle or a silly giggle: It was a true laugh, one that crinkled my nose and came from the depths of my belly.
My eyes were puffy from crying all day, and each time my eyelids closed, it felt as if someone were rubbing my eyes with sandpaper. I could barely keep my eyes open when they hit sunlight, but my focus at the moment was enjoying the sound of my children’s laughter.

Fourteen years after the big ball of caramel fur with paws came bounding out of the white Firebird, Emerald Liberty Akers (Emma for short) passed. She was a loyal golden retriever, a hefty dog whose entire backside whipped from side to side when she wagged her tail.
I had received the news while at work and sobbed uncontrollably. I could barely contain my tears and held back several gasps of breaths that threatened to turn into cries, while answering phones. I couldn’t take it anymore and left, driving home with tears rolling down my cheeks. I came home and the sound of my children’s voices soothed me a bit. I closed my eyes for 10 minutes and quite literally, not to sound cliche, woke up hoping that the earlier events were just my imagination. No such luck.
After throwing together a dreadful dinner, I decided to stop being depressed and enjoy the beautiful day. I got the girls dressed: Emmy in pigtails and sunglasses she insisted on wearing, and Natalie in shorts, a tee-shirt and a tutu ponytail holder. We walked, sometimes holding hands, to the playground at the local elementary school, stopping occasionally to admire the flowers (read: weeds), an ant or two trucking along, and an abandoned, shredded aluminum can. When we approached the fence to the playground, my girls shrieked in delight and padding as fast as they could in their sneakers, ran to the playground. I secretly thanked the convenience of a playground nearby, glad to give the girls something to do while giving me the peace of mind to come to terms with Emma’s death. The girls climbed up stairs, slid down slides, sat on a four-way teeter-totter that Natalie calls an airplane, ran around the perimeter of the blacktop and pretended to play hopscotch.

They quickly became bored with all of the things they had already conquered when Natalie asked to ride the tire swing. I was leery, because after all, putting a 2-year-old and 4-year-old on a tire suspended by thick chains and no other means of support, scared me. But I humored them and sat on the ground to snap pictures. My intentions were to swing them lightly and the first time I pushed them, they squealed with laughter, their eyes wide open and their mouths in a wide smile. They kept prodding me to push faster, Mommy, faster. Spin, Mommy, spin. Each time I pushed, it was a little faster, a little harder, until I felt they were ready to really swing. I stopped the swing, twisted the chains, then pushed. They turned and turned, Emmy’s head leaning on her sisters, both girls gripping the chains, and both girls laughing their heartiest laugh loudly and at length.

That’s when it happened. I laughed right along with them. I smiled, my eyes squinting not from burning and puffiness, but from grinning. On such a sad day, when I wanted to do nothing but lay in bed, cry and sleep, my children healed me. Their laughter, happiness, simplicity and innocence is the best medicine for those around them, including me.

I realized then, as the evening sun set on that beautiful day, that life will come and go. People we love will come in and out of life in a heartbeat, expected or not. Instead of dwelling on the pain, the sadness, anger, frustration, embracing the time shared with loved ones. Enjoy every second, because that second is like no other second. And laugh.

Sisterly Love: Fact or Fiction?

My girls are the best of friends. My girls are also the worst of enemies. I have never seen a dynamic duo such as Natalie, 4 (a.k.a. Drama Dana), and Emelia, 2 (Tattle Tessy).

These two darling girls with such an angelic exterior and a sincere interior, can flip switches to tiny terrors in tutus.

I used to spend time making a nice, healthy supper. It would take me awhile, but the girls would allow me that time to make supper. It didn't matter that usually, Emmy would spit it out and say "yuck." It was my time. HOWEVER, Emmy couldn't walk during those days and Natalie was a little more cooperative. These days, mac and cheese is the cuisine, maybe a hot dog here and there or cold cuts. That's as far as my culinary skills reach before meltdowns occur between the girls.

How well the girls get along depends on the length of their naps, their hunger level, weather, barometric pressure and the location of the moon. Some days, they are hateful to each other, crying and screaming at each other until my very last nerve quivers on the edge of breaking. Some days, Natalie is annoyed easily by her youngest sister (who simply adores her, by the way). Emmy could scoot five feet away to Natalie and Natalie will yell for her to stop touching her (as a matter of fact, this type of fight is occurring as I type). Emmy may swat at the air 10 feet away from Natalie, and Natalie will scream, "Mommy, she hit me." Natalie, on the other hand, still hasn't learned the art of sharing with her youngest sister, so often, Emmy's complaints are that Natalie isn't taking turns. It's nerve-wracking, brain-busting but sometimes can be oh so funny, especially when seeing how far they are from each other and still blame each other for violent acts.

Other days, my darlings are the closest of friends, and their laughter--the real, gut-busting laughter--fills their toy room. On these days, they can chase each other for hours, giggling, without fighting. They can play dolls and really interact, having conversations (though Emmy's vocabulary is still growing), and role-playing. They conspire, dream and wish together, and on rare occassions, every question you ask Natalie, she will answer with a, "Well, because my sister is my best friend, I want milk."

I remember the relationship with my brother wasn't so hot growing up and I wish I could change that. We're close now, but unfortunately, we lost a lot of time and memories together. I hope my girls can share and dream, live, love and laugh, and continue to be the best of friends and yes, the worst of enemies.

Just Say It

On a partly sunny Saturday morning, while most people were figuring out their brunch or lunch to enjoy in their jammies, I was charged with making sure the elite society of the world received gourmet catering on their jets. It was a particularly slow Saturday, slow enough for me to catch up on some work and answer the occassional phone call as well as process the occassional order.

The phone rang and looking down at the caller I.D., I hesitated. I didn't recognize the number, but was curious as to what this call would involve. I was curious with all unknown numbers that flashed across that screen before answering the phone. It was never the same type of call, which made things interesting.

I recited my greeting, and before I could ask the caller how I could assist them, I was rudely interrupted.

"This is Bob* from ABC Aircrafts*," said the caller, his tone edgy and volatile. "You NEED to go over my catering order immediately. I want to give you one chance to see if you're right. I want to give [name of our company] the chance to be right before I get angry. It was a pretty simple order and I don't see how anyone can screw this order up."

Um, okay. How would you respond to this? Exactly. I paused, taking in the words this fellow just snarled to me, and then pointed out the obvious: "Could I have a tail number?" You see, I don't know EVERYONE'S catering order for the day. We have to have a reference somehow, to be able to look up an order. Our crystal ball has been broken for some time now.

He spouted off his tail number and breathed heavily into the phone while I looked up the order. Opening the last page of the order, I informed Bob* that we had one cobb salad with light Italian dressing and ranch dressing.

"Light Italian," Bob* said. Silence. Silence ... is he asking me a question? Telling me something? What is he telling me? What do I say to this guy that won't set him over the edge? He sounds like he's standing on the ledge, the rocks are beginning to crumble beneath him and he's deciding whether it's worth it to jump. Dude, it's sooooo not worth jumping over Light Italian dressing.

"Yes, Bob*. Light Italian," I repeated. "I will have to pull the hard copy of the order the CSR took, but I do show Light Italian."

"There is no Light Italian," he coldly stated. Okay, can you elaborate sir? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?

"We do show Light Italian reflected on the order," I calmly state. "Did you not get Light Italian dressing?"

"No, we did not," he finally said (holy hell, he finally got to the root of the problem). "Now I'm going to have to go the store and get some before the passengers arrive."

"Sir, we can always bring some out to you befo ... *click* re ... you .... leaaaaaave. He hung up on me," I say, sighing, hanging up the phone.

Light Italian dressing. I'm hoping whatever rich or famous person ordered the salad savoured every last drop of that damn dressing.

One Chance to Get it Right

Although I walk on the tightrope of right and wrong by posting anything related to my job, I just can't take it anymore. I HAVE to post the humorous happenings of dealing with an elite clientele (and their lackeys) on a daily basis. You see, the stars of the world, politicians, members of royal families, and successful business people are my priority five days a week. During those days, I, as well as the team around me in the client services department, the kitchens and vendors, must ensure these fancy folk receive the very best cheese, the ripest fruit, the finest steak to consume while jet-setting. It sounds glamorous and easy, but trust me: those of us who walked into the job on the first day with transluscent skin have now developed leather-thick skin. Each time the phone rings, we never know who is on the other end of the call, or what issue they may bring to our attention. It may be a simple catering order for our Chicago kitchen for MDW, or an elaborate order for a contracted caterer out of CLE. However, it could also be a client looking for food, complimenting food (on a rare, rare basis), or *gulp* a client calling to complain about catering.

Oftentimes, the latter types of calls are manageable. Our talented team of folks in client services can schmooze, calm, sympathize with the most irate client. Other times ... well, just imagine being on the receiving end of Mr. Multi-Billionaire's pilot or flight attendant. The crew members are the people who must face Mr. Multi-Billionaire's and tell him his cinnamon and plain bagels never made it to the airport (only because the driver left them in the back of the van).

Anyway, without naming names, companies, exact times, dates, etc., I will share on a frequent basis the humor that is my job. Because frankly, in a job that can be so stressful, confusing, negative, humor helps me -- and anyone -- survive.

But at least they are keeping the economy going.

With tears in my eyes, I pulled into the gas station Tuesday, and filled my car with gasoline priced at $3.95. I had checked online not even a half an hour before, to see what parts of Columbus had the cheapest gasoline. I drove 20 miles on "E," to "my" gas station, nervously singing to Sara Bareillis and constantly glancing at my dashboard, all for supposed $3.62 per gallon gasoline. I was too late.

I bring up the gas prices because I work for a private aviation catering company. I do not handle the food; however, I do coordinate catering for those people lucky/affluent/fortunate enough to fly in private jets as their major means of transportation. We process orders for actors, actresses, millionaires, billionaires, athletes, royalty and professional sports teams. In the 10 months I have worked at this company, I have seen almost everything. From new puppy Superman costumes to "Playboy" magazines, these folks have no limits. When the rest of us are worrying about the price of gasoline, more specifically driving on "E" for 20 miles to get the cheapest gas, those of privileged stature can spend $500 on a catering for a two-hour trip.

When an order goes wrong, whether it be by the fault of the kitchen, client services, or the ordering company, a deviation is created. Most of the time, deviations are boring, straight-to-the-point, no frills. However, there are deviations such as the following that remind us that our clients are still human and still have moments like the rest of us. (Names, companies have been removed to protect privacy, of course.)

"We thought you should know that the catering on our Cabo flight was not good. The tuna wraps were inedible. Our family flew from Cabo a couple weeks ago and had the same reaction. I think you need to find a different caterer.
BTW – serving the pilots a rum cake soaked in rum, is not a good idea (they didn’t eat it)."

"Someone may want to inform the caterers that they should actually place food inside of the crew lunch bags. These meals are getting worse. I know we're attempting to slim down some of our less spry crew members, but I'm 6'4" 220lbs- I need more than an apple and a cup of lettuce."

"Spoke with Carol and she had been meaning to make us aware that the Catering on board for the flight on 4/26 was poor. She said that the Turkey sandwiches had only 1 slice of turkey and cheese with two pieces of bread "slapped together" also seemed to be sogging. She said, 'A 3 year old can make a better sandwich'."

"Myrna reported that the fresh squeezed orange juice was too thick. She could "barely get it out of the container." Her passengers would not drink it. Please credit from invoice. See feedback"