UAL/MCD pair-trade

Despite spending the bulk of my life at ORD, today is my first time behind the mysterious door adjacent to the Red Carpet Club. This is the International First Class Lounge. I had no idea what to expect out of the airport hangout of people who spend $15,000 to $25,000 on roundtrip tickets. Would there be a glass of Dom Perignon being poured for me just as I approach my table? Would I get a blowjob?

I certainly didn't expect to push a button so that a machine could dispense 4oz of my favorite flavored coffee into a styrofoam cup. I needed to chase the Hazelnut down with a bottle of water.

"Excuse me, sir. Can you remove the Masterlock from the fridge so that I can retrieve a bottle of water, please?"

Neither were there heads of companies or supermodels in the lounge. Heads of companies and supermodels, I realize, probably do not choose to be on an airplane for New Year's Eve.  Neither, apparently, do "regular" people. That's right. The only current occupants of the International First Class Lounge are myself and United employees. I tell a Japanese statue that it looks like they haven't remodeled this place since Gordon Gekko's first retirement. The statue does not look amused.

It's now raining outside. A part of me hopes that my flight gets delayed so that I'll have some time to get McDonald's.
                                                    

Old Land Sigh

It's not that I want to cancel New Year's Eve. I just sort of want it to be December 30th in perpetuity until I fix everything. For example, there are a few lines on my 2010 tax return that still contain negative numbers begging to be offset by gains within the calendar year. My subscription to Beckett Baseball Card Monthly expires, and no, all those Frank Thomas rookie cards won't be paying for Round 3 MBA application fees. My infidelity - it wasn't Air India this time I swear - has left me 7,990 miles short of retaining Premier status on United Airlines. 

But it's really because I don't have a New Year's Eve party to attend. I mean, here in Chicago, I get invited to a number of events, but always in some variant of the following conversation:

"We're doing X. You should come."
"Say I come. Excluding me, what will be the number of single people there?"
"Ummm..."
"Is it a positive number?"
"Ummm..."

My parents wonder why I don't stick around longer during the holidays. On paper, it's living the dream. My mom does my laundry, washes the dishes, and braves the snow and ice every day, pulling a cart to the grocery store.

"I'm going to get some dessert for New Year's Eve," she says. "Is there anything I can pick up for you?"
"A bottle of Dom and a styrofoam cup."


I walk back into my room. It's the same room that has been mine since 1982. Only now, there are no more posters of Ryne Sandberg, and a Samsung LCD monitor stands upon the ruins of the castle of an old Lego empire. From a wireless phone, I call United Airlines and talk to a robot before I'm transferred to their outsourced customer service in India. 

"If I fly out of Chicago on December 31st," I begin, "and land in Hong Kong on January 1st, do the frequent flyer miles count toward 2010 or 2011?"