(Posted last night around 9 p.m. apparently right before the raccoons took up breeding right outside the house up in a tree)
So I’m up here at TrishaTruly’s place, and after a relaxing evening of smoked Gouda cheese and a nice red wine whose name my foggy brain cannot recall, I am purt-near pooped. I must admit that I do miss my boys and hearing them on the phone asking, “Where are you daddy,” just about made me get all teary eyed (just about).
I didn’t plan on blogging at all on my trip, but I happened to check and I know that Trisha has wireless here on the old homestead. So, I just have to get her crypto key before I can get online…something I’ll hit her up for tomorrow.
But, I noticed something on my trip up today: My first plane from Atlanta to Newark was your typical 80-passenger jet. I sat next to a very nice lady who was all dolled up (with pearls). She was a flight attendant coming off of vacation and flying back home to Newark. The other attendants on duty were also nice and well-dressed and overall, it was a decent flight.
And…then…I walked down the runway in Newark to catch my flight to Scranton, PA, only to find myself walking back down some stairs onto the tarmac in order to get on a Dehavilland Dash 8. If you haven’t flown one of these little gems, it’s a dual prop plane that seats about 50 passengers.
And I noticed something that perhaps isn’t applicable worldwide, but which certainly deserves more study:
The quality of the flight attendant is directly proportional to the size of the plane
Yes folks, apparently in the airline industry, SIZE MATTERS!
Whereas with my larger plane from Atlanta to Newark, the crew was nice and neatly pressed; however, the lone attendant on my journey from Newark to Scranton (home of, “The Office”), the flight attendant looked as if she’d woken up late, pulled on last week’s uniform and then had a couple of shots of bourbon on the way into the airport.
Anyway, just something I noticed.
Tomorrow, I meet the oft-quoted “D”, who is Trisha’s Beau and we will drink more wine and eat red meat. A healthy evening if ever I had one. In between all of that, sinuses permitting, I hope to get some sort of workout over at my sister’s house so that I don’t slide even further into being a fat blog of a husband and father. If we get bored, Trisha has offered to lend me one of her rifles so that we can go shoot critters and if I get good enough, perhaps when I get home I can stake out my front lawn in hopes that my turf-destroying mole will stick his scruffy lil’ head above ground long enough for me to shout, “FREEZE GOPHER” and take a pot-shot or two before the cops show up.
Hey, a guy can dream!