Posts Tagged ‘travel’

horse forest

(I know it’s not a flying horse. Use your imagination.)

Instead of falling asleep last night, I was wondering if Pegasus was a flying horse. As in the only flying horse or a species of flying horses. I pondered that for quite a while before thinking, “God should have made some of those”.

If there were flying horses, would anyone have bothered to invent airplanes or would they have just been off flying around on their horses?

Would I have flown to Baltimore on my horse this week? And what kind of apparel would we need for horse flying? My outfit would have been red, linen, matching the trim on my flying horses saddle and the ribbons braided in his hair. Yeah with white pompoms on his wing covers. (It was raining, so yeah I said wing covers.)

Would there be horse flying sports and recreations? Would hotels have flying horse stables?

That’s about the time I realized one of us didn’t take our medication to stop obsessive thoughts. No wonder one of us wasn’t falling asleep.

P.S. I had an anxiety attack on the airplane and was nauseous all day long. I bet I wouldn’t have been anxious riding my flying horse.


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The airplane was so tiny, it could be called a sardine can. my fourteen inch wide carry-on was banging against the seats as I dragged it behind me. I had become intimate with the two seat on the left, one on the right commuter plane. Even at my diminutive height of five foot two, I managed to smack my head on an over head bin. Up until now, all super small planes I’d flown on were short and wide, not super narrow.

This must be how sailor a submarine feel. I do loves me a man in a sailor uniform. But that’s another story.

As I was fighting with my recalcitrant case, banging along after me.  A ray of hope entered the darkness. A cowboy booted foot protruding out in the isle. A cowboy, too tall for his seat. Cowboys always offer help to a woman in distress.

As I slugged closer to immediate help, I notice a harlequin pattern painted on the boot. My stomach began to sink. When I got close enough to realize it was puffy paint, my stomach hit bottom. And not just puffy paint, he had bedazzled his belt to match his boots. This was no cowboy, it was a fauwboy (a faux cowboy).

He didn’t offer to help me with my case. He didn’t even look me in the eye.

Hot and sweaty, struggling down the isle I continued. Then I saw another ray of hope, a cowboy hat way in the back, near my seat. In the row so far back, if they’d have to strap me in the toilet to get me any closer to the rear of the plane.

My seat was finally in reach. Someone would help me heft my case into the overhead bin. I turned with  a forlorn look of desperation. His hat was tied to his head with strings. STRINGS TYING ON HIS HAT. This was no cowboy.

Cowboys do not paint their boots, bedazzle their belts, or need to tie their hats on. Cowboys wear worn boots, real leather, silver belt buckles, jeans without bling and finally, cowboys know how to treat women like ladies.

This is why I loves me a cowboy.

And a sailor

Any man in military uniform.


Texas Ranger, which goes without saying.

And …

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I’ve managed to break another tablet. I mention this since it has been a while since I’ve posted. I travel during the week and use my tablet to stay connected. I managed to break this tablet, by plugging my cell phone charger into my tablet.  Not that this had any thing to do with drinking whiskey straight. It happened during the airport apocalypse. I can assure you there was no whiskey involved in that incident though I think it couldn’t have hurt.

I stay at a hotel in Sioux Falls with a secret club on the ninth floor. You have to know about it and then beg and whine to get access. Since I’m a superb whiner, I was granted access the second night. Persistence, squeaky wheel, you know the drill…

I was given a key card to swipe on the reader in the elevator.  This allows you to reach the hitherto inaccessible ninth floor run by Charlie, a lovely older lady. Charlie’s an interesting character. She use to be a manager with the hotel before she had a brain aneurysm. She has some memory related issues but other than that, she’s in tiptop shape.

At this point, you’re thinking where does the whiskey come in. The attraction of the secret club is an open bar and free food. They serve an entree and what I call bits and pieces, cheese, nuts, shrimp and the like. And did I mention the open bar is free. The Ninth Floor began to remind me of gangster movie, which led to drinking liquor straight.

I would step up to Charlie’s bar and say, “Whiskey, straight.”

Her brows would wrinkle and she would say, “Really?”

I replied, “Yeah.” Like a gansta says yeah.

She would shake her head like we hadn’t been through this the night before and pour the cocktail. I grabbed it, downed it and slammed the glass back down. The mostly male audience was impressed. And I would go about my evening.

Recently I went in for a checkup. My doctor is a tiny thing, even shorter than my five foot two self. This doctor makes grown men quake, even other doctors.

I have a policy “Be bad, but don’t lie about it.” So when she asked, You’re a moderate drinker, right?

I replied, “Yeah, mostly. Except for the whiskey, straight, only one, a night.”

She stopped and turned. I’m sure she assumed I would have a different answer.

“What you mean?” she asked, looking at me over her glasses.

“I found this club. The drinks are free. One thing leads to another. You know.”

The diminutive doctor comes over. Patting my arm she said, “Just because it’s free, doesn’t mean we want it.”

Now when a bartender asks me, “Want something to drink?”

I replied, “Nah, my doctor told me to stop drinking whiskey straight.”

Which gets about the same reaction as drinking whiskey straight.

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I have several bosses that I loved working for. The most fun are the ones who play along with my insanity. One of my bosses moved to France and I miss her horribly. Her name was Elizabeth, so I called her Lizardibreath to her face. And behind her back.

There was a particular incident that demonstrates our relationship.

I was having  lunch at my desk: burger, fries, a packet of salt and of course a diet soda.  

Lizard-breath came stomping around the corner. We could all hear her coming. The click, click of her high heels running through the isle ways made grown men cringe.

“I need you to …”

I held up my hand for her to stop, opened the packet of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around my chair. “Ok, now what?” I asked.

She responded without skipping a beat. “I’m not a witch, I’m a vampire. I need you to ….”

“Damn it, I forgot the garlic salt.”

“Go through the clients records and …”

She was always up for the game. I really miss Lizard-breath. She just had to move to France. How insensitive can one person be?

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