The joys of a pilot wife. Everyone new person I meet, when I say what the husband does, they look misty and romantical and wax poetic on “how cool” a pilot husband is.

This isn’t the 1960’s, people. Unfortunately, we live in the aviation era of sweatpants and charging for water and “bare fare” pricing. Plus, with him gone two thirds of the month, I am the practicing single parent to the kids and the sole innkeeper of our little suburban castle.

A little of the glamour still sticks to the aviation lifestyle, though, and I know this because I was a flight attendant for nearly eight years and I’d get the same glazed over admiration when I told said new person my profession: little did they know of passenger fights over overhead spaces, torn pantyhose ‘glued’ together with sticky hairspray to stay up to dress code, and snarfing down on cup o’ noodles in the back galley between flights….

Anyway, my husband has the uncanny ability to schedule his trips a month in advance to overlap every major snowstorm the Northeast has. Seriously. If it’s going to snow a foot or more, he’s out of town. Maybe all his time out of town he’s practicing his psychic skills, but being his logical pilot-al mind I seriously doubt it. It’s either his good luck or my bad luck.

This week I was #blessed to dig out of another Northeast blizzard alone, but I’m not pregnant and the kids were occupied inside so it was the least cumbersome shoveling I’ve done in a while. I did have plenty internal Cinderella-inspired dialogues going on in my head with every scoop, so don’t feel too sorry for me. I’m sorry enough for myself.

Another skill my husband possesses: he’s ALWAYS gone with something breaks in the house. Like, major breakings of essential household equipment. If it’s gonna happen, he’s beaching it up in Southern Florida.

This morning I woke up and felt cold. Like, really, abnormally cold, which means it’s cold because I have good Norwegian DNA that loves the cold — look at the thermostat and it’s 55 degrees. Oh great, I thought, the boiler’s out?

I texted a very non-dramatic “Heat’s not working” to the hubs and he called me immediately. “What? Go downstairs!”

Now, I’m a weenie. A weird weenie with a juvenile fear of certain corners of our basement. I know, I know, I’m a 33-year-old woman, and I go into the same basement multiple times a day to do laundry, but I actively avoid the ‘boiler’ section. I can’t explain why, it’s just me. And so I made my 6-year-old and the dog join me downstairs as I approached the boiler in the ‘bad’ section.

Nothing to it, theย boiler was clicking so I reset the breaker and guess what, it worked and the heat is working again. My husband heaped some praise on me for fixing it but my dependence on a child and a dog just to creep into the boiler section of the basement sort of diminishes any independent woman pride I could have at this moment.


It seems the boiler is fixed, husband is home tonight for a good long stretch and before I know it he will fly off again living that #pilotlife and I’ll stay home as the devoted #pilotwife.

(not sure why I’m overusing hashtags this morning, it’s a mood so stick with me here…probably just an annoying phase don’t worry )


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