Argh. I hate flying. I’m aboard a plane right now that’s engaged in that most annoying of maneuvers called a holding pattern. I think we’re only minutes away from Houston, but we can’t land because the airport’s closed due to a thunderstorm. The pilot thinks that we’ll have to divert to New Orleans to refuel.
Woohoo! He just came back on the PA. The airport’s open again, and we’ll be able to land without making a detour. I wonder if he was playing the same trick on us that doctors play? You know, that game where doctors ooze doom and gloom and tell their patients that the prognosis is not good. And then, by some miracle (say, perhaps, the doctor’s amazing skills), the patient makes a full recovery.
I’m just glad this three-hour flight won’t turn into a six-hour flight. Mom’s beef noodles are waiting. Mmm … beef noodles. And mmm … chicken fried steak. (I once said “I’ve missed you" to a chicken fried steak -- acknowledging its long absence from my belly -- before devouring it.) And mmm … barbecue. Can’t wait to go to The Salt Lick.
I think this thin air is messing with my brain cells. Better stop writing before silly gives way to incomprehensible.