Okay, let me tell you about my wife — well, a little about my wife. It certainly isn’t the whole story. Now, on July 17, 1996, flight TWA 800 — a passenger flight on the way to Paris — exploded in mid-air, killing all 230 people on board. It was unbelievable because I had just gone to Paris on business less than a month before on, of all flights, TWA 800. We went via New York because our incredibly fucking cheap division manager saved money. The only catch was that we flew into Strasbourg, France, first and then on to Paris in a puddle-jumper, changed in the bathroom and went on to meetings without even going to the hotel and showering. Well, at least we fit right in there from a hygiene perspective. But I digress. Let’s fix that.

While we were watching the whole tragedy unfold on television, Beth turned to me and said, “You’re never flying again.” Actually, I hated flying anyway. It’s not my travel method of choice, so it didn’t bother me that she felt that way. But that was then. Now, my wifey wants to be a pilot. She and I are generally at the kitchen table until all hours of the night on our computers. I’m usually writing and she does a variety of things, including playing Flight Simulator. I bought her an incredible joystick for Christmas and she flies at least once a day. But if she were to fly for  her own airline, it would have to be named Grim Reaper Airways.

Let’s talk about Strike 1. Beth has chronic pancreatitis, type 2 diabetes and severe iron-deficient anemia that has forced her to be transfused 3 times and iron infused 5 times since 2004. The doctors suspect she’s bleeding from somewhere, but they can’t find it. We’re working on the final test to rule out the GI tract. Then, the testing moves on to the OB/GYN.  (In fairness, let me say that these illnesses aren’t self-inflicted. That’s another incredible story I’ll tell later.) She also has panic disorder and PTSD from a youth full of abuse from her father. Yeah, apparently God was speaking to dad through Walter Cronkite and telling him to do this foul, evil stuff. That’s a different story for a different post. My point is that there’s no way in hell that she’s going to be given a pilot’s license. And that’s a good thing because Strike 2 is that she cannot land the plane to save anyone’s life.

I can’t tell you the number of evenings I’ve spent here laughing while she yells, “Ooh, I’m in a tree. Oh, hell, at least everyone’s alive and the plane isn’t destroyed.” I will tell you that Beth is great in mid-air and can resolve most problems. She just cannot land. She absolutely loves the Cirrus SR22 GTS. These are her exact words, “It’s very beautiful even if it spins out of control every once in a while.” There’s Strike 3. She covets a plane that likes to create adventure for the pilot.

She has indeed slammed into mountains. She has landed on the highway because she’s mistaken the highway for the runway. And when she does hit the runway, she comes down hard. Once her wheels got stuck after landing. It was ugly, I’ll tell you. I love it when she says to me, “Hell, just think. When we finally do succumb to fascism here, I can fly us all out.” No fucking way.  We’re already under a form of fascism. I’m alive. I’m staying.

Remember the name: Elizabeth Della Piana. If she does manage to sneak through the system and become a pilot, don’t get on.