Me, the V.I.P.

The first time I heard the acronym V.I.P. was when I attended the annual air show at Ellington Airforce Base with my friend, Jaime. Her dad was a V.I.P. in his own right at Ellington and had brought us along.

I was about 8-years-old and I didn't give a crap about airplanes, their silly tricks or even those Blue Angel guys. What I did like was the shiny ribbon safety pinned to my Osh Kosh B'Gosh shirt. It was blue and it said "V.I.P." in gold lettering. Jaime told me it stood for "Very Important Person" and I laughed. That Jaime. She was silly. I didn't tell her it was probably some airplane lingo.

But I did feel awfully important in that fancy tent with--get this--all the free cheese we could eat! And we got to sit in chairs while other people sat on beach towels or even just the grass. I had arrived.

That's not the only time I've been a V.I.P. I can identify at least three other V.I.P. moments:

Los Angeles, July 2000: Now we did happen to be in Malibu on the exact same day that Jen and Brad got married but alas, that's not my V.I.P. story. That evening Frank and I went out in L.A. and for some reason got in a long line at a Japanese night club. They must not have been charging cover. So we're the only white people in this long line and suddenly, the bouncer walks to the back of the line (and like I said, it was long, like down the street) and taps ME on the shoulder. He says, "You. Come to the front of the line." I asked if Frank could come too and he nodded. When we got to the front they just let us right in the club. The club was crowded and loud and there was nothing particularly interesting about it--but I loved walking past that long line of people! I think they were trying to fill some blonde quota! Or maybe they thought I was famous. Yes, that's it. We'll go with Britney (hey, it WAS five years ago before she was super preggo).

Salt Lake City, February 2002: It was the Winter Olympics and our friend Mark's parents were on the committee. Now I'm really more of a Summer Olympics gal (with floor exercise aspirations of my own) but hey, I'm not complaining. Mark's parents put us up in a condo in Park City and when we got there, we were so hooked up: not only were there all kinds of snacks (you can see that free food is a recurring theme in my V.I.P. moments) but there was official Olympic gear: I'm talking all the Roots stuff like t-shirts, pullovers and hats. I love that stuff! I still wear it all the time. Then we got free tickets to the men's skiing event. I had never even seen anybody ski before--honest! I totally froze my butt off but it was fun drinking hot chocolate, watching the event and being a V.I.P. There was no ribbon involved but we had one of those lanyards with a pass on it--even cooler.

New York to Rome, June 2005: Now I've flown domestic first class before since Frank used to work for American Airlines. But I've never flown International first class. And I didn't this time either--but I hear it's incredible. On this particular flight, they didn't have first class, only business class which is a step up from domestic first class but not as good as international first class. Get it? But it doesn't matter because we were still the highest class on the plane. So again, we got hooked up by Mark who still works for American. He gave us passes and ooh, was I excited to sit up in the front row in a chair big enough for me, Frank and maybe a child. But it was all mine. As I got comfy in my seat, I noticed that I really enjoy that soothing music they play before take-off--you know, like the sounds of the ocean?

And then the flight attendants just started shoving cool things at us:

--Our little overnight kit with socks, eye mask, ear plugs
--A mini-DVD player with Bose headphones and a catalog of movies
--A pre take-off glass of champagne
--And food--my God the food! It never stopped--the warm peanuts, an appetizer, spinach canneloni, dessert...and then there was a humungo breakfast just a few hours later.

I didn't get a ribbon there either or even stick-on airplane wings. But I did save my boarding pass. I gazed at it on our return trip home--where I sat in coach, in the middle of the long row of seats, listening to that irritating nature music.