What I Did On My Vacation

[MathGirl]

Greetings,
Having spent the past two weeks in the company of my Aunt Louise, I find myself thinking and writing like she talks. It's horrible. I think I'll write a detailed description of my trip from Sacramento to San Francisco, a la Auntie. I can get it out of my system and return to normal. First of all, it was not a simple 80 mile drive as you might expect. I mean, who would bother with a detailed account of a mundane auto trip west on I-80 for about 1.5 hours? There are very few points of interest, let alone scenic wonders, in places like Davis, Fairfield, Vallejo, etc. Moveover, who would want to read it? Nobody, I expect. No way, Jose. Please note that I'm not talking about any specific Jose, here. Not a Jose Garcia, Mendez, Trujillo, Gomez, Schmidt, or even Cabesa de Vaca. I make reference to the hypothetical or virtual Jose to whom everyone says no way on occasion. I hope that matter is now clear and behind us. I'm sure you agree. Of course you do. End of subject. Finito. No, our little trip from Sac to SF involved taking what you might call the long way around. And I do mean the LOOOOONG way. To be more specific, it involved going through the Panama Canal. Now I know there are easier ways to get from Sac to SF, but I think we agreed in the preceeding paragraph (had there been a paragraph)that such a journey borders on the ho hum. Ennui city, Dude. Of course we did. Well, that's enough about that. End of subject. Finito. John and I met at my parents' house in Sacramento. He arrived from the Philippines, and I came from considerably closer. In fact, so much closer that it hardly amounted to a trip at all. Compared with John's, I mean. Well, you knew that. Of course you did. You're like that. Perspicacious. I hadn't seen him in weeks (about eight), and I guess it is obvious that he had not laid eyes on me for about the same period of time. Of course it is. Obvious, I mean. We didn't have time for more than a nice hug and kiss and a little chatting before we were off on our way to San Francisco. Personally, I could have picked a more interesting way to wait for the bus to pick us up, but at least we were together. Of course we were, and I'm sure you understand. Of course you do. Well, the shuttle bus finally arrived to pick us up. We decided to do that rather than have Mom and Dad drive us to the airport. It would have kept them up until two Aye Emm, and they're too old for that. Forties, you know. Well, you probably didn't know that, but now you do. I'm too old for that, actually. Staying up that late, I mean. The bus was blue, but it was hard to tell because it was sort of dark. After all, it was ten o'clock Pee Emm at night. The bus was a diesel and the exhaust stank, as diesel effluent always does. The driver of the little bus was a woman dressed sort of funny. I don't remember exactly what she wore, but it was unusual. I didn't mind, though. I'm like that, you know. Tolerant. I think she may have been a little drunk, but so were most of the passengers. We were not. Not yet, at least, and I'll go into that later. Just hold your taters. The driver wore glasses. The bus wasn't very big, but it was okay. It was quite foggy that night, and Sacramento Airport is about twenty miles north northwest of the city. From Mom and Dad's place we went down Fair Oaks to Madison Avenue, then it was a straight shot north to Interstate 80. There's a huge interchange there, and eighty narrows down from five lanes to four, each way, or course. It's the shits sometimes, but it wasn't bad at that time of night, because there wasn't much traffic, partly because of the late hour and partly because it was foggy. I hope you appreciate the work I'm going to in order to supply you the details you want about this whole thing. I know you're detail-oriented, and I'm trying my best to satisfy your thirst for knowledge. You, of course, have the option of not reading it. I think the bus had a front end alignment problem, or possibly a square tire, because it shimmied quite a bit a freeway speed. High speed wobble, you know. Of course you do. Did I mention that it was foggy? Well, it was. Foggy, I mean. Not too bad, though, and we were able to maintain a pretty good speed as we proceeded west on Interstate 80, heading to where it intersects with Interstate 5. I'd say we averaged more than fifty miles per hour on that stretch, which is not bad considering that it was kind of foggy. Interstate Five is also Highway 99 in that area. That is where The Sacramento Kings play basketball, ARCO Arena. I've been there lots of times. I won a gymnastic meet there once when I was in junior high. I still have the trophy, if you'd like to see it. Might be easier to send you a picture, though, but you probably wouldn't be able to see my name engraved on the little brass thingie, and that would be a shame. The Kings are very good this year, and I think they will finally beat those asshole Lakers from Los Angeles. I don't like basketball much, though. The only interesting part is the last five minutes. Other than that, it's just a bunch of ni... guys playing basketball. My dad really likes it, though, and he and Mom have season tickets. Mom hates basketball, so Dad usually takes along one of his buddies to the Kings games. That way everyone is happy: Dad, Mom, and the aforementioned buddy de jour. They're in Section C, row 21. The seats at ARCO, that is. I don't remember the seat numbers, but I could find out if you're interested. Anyway, they're good seats, and they're on the King's end of the court every other quarter. I mean, they're on the good end in either the first and third quarters or the second and fourth quarters, depending on the direction the Kings are facing when they have the ball. Well, you knew all that, didn't you? Of course you did. It's not that way with college basketball, though, because they just play two twenty minute halves. Or is it "halfs?" Oh well, you know what I mean. If not, let me know, and I'll try to explain it to you. Better yet, call Rick Barry at KNBR, weekdays noon to three pee emm. I'm sure he would be glad to hear from you. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Where was I? Oh .. . We turned north onto I-5 (did I tell you that it's also Highway 99 in that area? Well, it is.). It's sort of a cloverleaf there, and you have to go around a lot to get from westbound on eighty to northbound on five (which is also ninety nine in that area). The van shook quite a bit on that long ewe turn, and I thought it might turn over. Those busses have quite a high center of gravity, and I don't think they're very stable in high speed turns. Well, we got onto I-5 (which is also Hwy 99 in that area) and it was really foggy. The American River runs through that area, and they raise a lot of rice out there. Rice requires a lot of water to raise. Did you know that? Well, it does. A lot. Anyway, there's a lot of water out there, and most of it seemed to be in the air that night. Fortunately there wasn't much traffic, but I believe I mentioned that. The airport is about twelve or maybe thirteen miles north of the edge of the city (and past ARCO Arena), and it was foggy all the way. By the way, ARCO stands for Atlantic Richfield Corporation, after whom it is named, and I'm sure it cost them big bucks to have it so called, if you know what I mean. Of course you do. It's really dark out there, except for the highway which is illuminated with numerous lights and things. Well, I suppose it isn't too dark in the daytime, but you never know. I saw the driver sneak a little bottle of vodka (it was Popov, the cheap stuff) out of her purse and take a swig. I don't think anyone else noticed, and I didn't say anything. I was sort of cold, even with John's arm around me, and I could have used a little nip of that stuff myself. The bus shimmied a lot on the way to the airport because the driver went faster there even though it was foggy (did I mention that? Well, it was.). Well, that's enough for now. Next time I'll tell you about the drive from the interchange where Interstate eighty becomes Interstate Five and Highway ninety nine. It was really foggy, and the bus sort of shimmied because I think it had sort of a front end alignment problem. It was blue. The bus, I mean. But I think I already mentioned that. End of subject. Finito.
Bye,
Me

 

[Guest]

Maths, despite no paragraph breaks, that was brilliant. Do write more, though if you do tell the whole story I suspect you migth be able to submit to novels/novellas, or perhaps induce Laurel to create an "epic" category.

your fan forever,

Perdita

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Greetings,
~ The bus was blue, but it was hard to tell because it was sort of dark. After all, it was ten o'clock Pee Emm at night. The bus was a diesel and the exhaust stank, as diesel effluent always does. ~

~ It was blue. The bus, I mean. But I think I already mentioned that. End of subject. Finito.
Bye,
Me

Bump and a bouncing big blue bus ride!

Maths,

I have a little disappointed expectations and thwarted ambitions, I read and stumbled and read some more and nodding off then finish with the big blue.

My dear sweet maths where is the good stuff? Like in your stories.

 

[minsue]

Well, I thought it was brilliant, but then I thought the movie Cry Baby was brilliant, too.

- Mindy, a fan

 

[MathGirl]

Re: Re: What I Did On My Vacation

My dear sweet maths where is the good stuff? Like in your stories.

Dear 7,
I'm afraid you're in for a long, long ride. What WAS the good stuff.
MG
Ps. I'm glad you at least got the part about the bus. The rest was just filler, anyway.
Pps. Mins: Who is that Choriol Anus guy?
Ppps. Perdita: This is written in Auntie-speak. She does not recognize paragraphs. She doesn't even pause for breaths.

 

[MathGirl]

Chapter two

Woo woo woo,

You did want to hear about my trip, didn't you? Well, I'm going to tell you all about it. By the time we got to the airport on I-five (which is also Highway 99 in that area) it was almost eleven Pee Emm. That was fine, since our flight didn't leave unti 12:05 Aye Emm. It was quite foggy out there, and the only place you could see anything was right under the street lights, and even then there wasn't much to see but fog. There were lots of them, though. Street lights, I mean. Of course, you knew that. The road to the terminal sort of winds around, but it finally came to the area where the terminals are. We stopped first at the United terminal where some people got off. One of them was a very fat man. His wife was tiny and skinny, and I felt sorry for her. I tried not to think about how they might ... do it. The fat guy tipped the driver who was dressed rather strangely, complete with a little flat bottle of Popov vodka in her purse. She wore glasses, too, but I believe I already mentioned that. Some of the passengers didn't tip her, and I thought that was kind of stingy. John said it was optional, but I still thought it was stingy. I told him to make sure he tipped her, and he gave me a look. I shut up. We stopped at two more terminals before we got to ours. I think one of them was American. I could find out if you need to know, but I really hope you don't ask. We finally came to our terminal. We flew Delta Airlines. John always flies Delta because he owns stock in it. Not enough to pur him on the Board or anything, but enough to make him wish he didn't own it. Oh, the older lady who sat next to me on the bus struck up a conversation while we were out on I-five (which is also 99 in that area). At one point she said where are you and your father going? I said, My father is still in Sacramento, and I didn't think he was planning to go anywhere. This is my lover. She went harummph and didn't say anything more to me. I guess I shouldn't have said that, but I couldn't help it. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Anyway, Delta Airlines was the last terminal, wouldn't you know it, so we and the other people flying on Delta Airlines were the last to get off the bus. John tipped the driver, and it must have been a lot because she jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. I hope she got home okay, because it was kind of foggy that night and she had been drinking that cheap Popov vodka. There weren't many people in the terminal, since our flight was the last to leave that night, and there were no incoming flights. It was probably too foggy for planes to land, anyway. There weren't many airport employees around, since our flight was the last to leave. Everyone acted like they wanted to go home, and I really didn't blame them. I didn't. Want to go home, I mean. I was excited. I hadn't seen John for months, and we were going to have ten days all alone together. I was so hor.... anxious that I could hardly wait. John mentioned that seeing me in that short knit dress gave him an erection. I was glad to hear that, because I like having that effect on him. We
agreed it was going to be a long day and a lot of miles before we finally got to our hotel in San Juan Puerto Rico that afternoon. I wanted to at least get behind a
pillar and have him give me kiss and a good frisking, but he doesn't do that kind of thing in public. I don't either, normally, but I would have then. Well enough about that for now. End of subject. Finito. Did I mention that the little bus that brought us to the airport had a diesel engine? Well, it did. You could tell it was a diesel because of the noise of the diesel knock and the smell of the exhaust. I'm quite a powerplant-aware person. Particularly for a female. It was only a few feet from the bus to the terminal, but it was cold. I didn't want to lug around a heavy coat in the caribbean, so I just had a short, light jacket on. That wasn't much, because it was sort of foggy that night. I believe I mentioned that. The fog, that is. I was also wearing a clinging knit dress that had a short skirt. Leggs and 2.5 inch heels. The nylons didn't have seams in the back. I think that looks silly and slutty. I knew I was looking good, and most of the men I walked past seemed to think so, too. I don't show off, but I don't make myself look frumpy, either. Anyway, I dress for John, and he liked the way I looked. A lot. We were going first class, so we didn't have to wait in line to check in like the ni... coach passengers did. John said he always flew first class for the legroom, food, he could get drunk if he felt like it, and he can afford it. He was just kidding, though, because he never gets drunk. I think he flies first class because money doesn't mean anything to him, and why be uncomfortable? I don't know how much money he has, but it seems to be bottomless. Dad says that John tries, but he just can't spend it as fast as it comes in. Must be nice, but I'm not that way. I tend to be sort of cheap. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. None of the gift shops, bars, or restaurants were open, but Sacramento International doesn't have much even at the best of times. Some people were bitching about not being able to buy magazines to read on the plane. Well, I had a little carry on case and John had the attache case he carries everywhere, and we each had something to read. I never go anywhere without a book. You can never tell when one might come in handy. Of course you can't. Never tell, I mean. We went through the baggage check and the metal detector. John had to go back through because of a gold money clip he carries. It has a twenty dollar gold piece on it, and he says it always sets off metal detectors. He also has a plate in his hip from a bad car wreck, but he can't take that out to go through a metal detector. They're like that, you know. Hip plates, I mean. Nonremovable. We went to the place where people wait to get on departing planes, but there weren't more than about a dozen people waiting. I guess most people don't travel at that time of night, but it was right for us because it got us to San Juan at the right time. At least that's what I was told, and what do I know about stuff like that? Not much. When it was time to get on the plane, we got to go first, since we paid more than anyone else. Our seats were on the right side of the plane, about four rows from the front. I don't remember the seat numbers, but I saved the tickets as a souvenir. I collected lots of souvenirs on the way to SF, and they were all in that suitcase that got lost and I'll probably never see again. So much for souvenirs. I could look it up for you if you want. The seat numbers, I mean, but I think you're probably getting more information than you really want already, so I suggest you don't ask. The right side when you're facing the front of the plane, of course. There were just two seats along the side, and I got the one next to the window. I wanted to be next to the window even though I knew there wasn't going to be anything to see except dark. The attendant who got us seated and our stuff stowed overhead smelled like scotch whiskey. I hoped the pilot hadn't been at the same party as the stewardess. The seats were nice and wide and uholstered in medium brown leather. They smelled like a new car, and that's a nice smell. The plane was a MD-eighty. That's a medium sized jet liner with an engine under each wing. That comes to a total of two, if you're mathematically inclined as I am. It's made by McDonnell Doublas, so ergo the MD designation. The derivation of the eighty is a mystery and is destined to remain so, because I don't care. It was sure plenty big for that flight, because the thing wasn't even half full. The cheap seats were fairly well occupied, but first class was almost deserted. The plane had started the trip in Oakland, and that's where most of the passengers got on. I guess that's also why there were so many African Americans sitting in back. Oakland is known for that, but I'm sure you would know more about that than I do. After all, almost anyone does. Know more about it than I do, I mean. Well enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I hoped the pilots had taken naps that afternoon. It was going to be a long flight to Texas, and I sure didn't want them going to sleep. Well, that's about enough for now. At least I got us to the airport and on the plane. I could see out the window that it was still pretty foggy out there. John showed me how the armrest between our seats folded up, so I sat right next to him and snuggled. I'll write about the plane ride from Sacramento to Dallas Fort Worth Airport next time. I hope I'll be able to tell you about it all in one letter. Probably not, though, because I get bogged down in the minute details you seem to love so much. My ISP is down right now, and I have no idea when they will be back up. I sure hope I can get back online and send this. I'll really be pissed if I can't because I spent a long time writing this because you want to hear all about my trip and I haven't even gotten us out of Sacramento yet. Well, the airport is out of town, north northeast on I five which is also highway ninety nine in that area. It gets quite foggy out there sometimes, and I think that's why they grow rice. It likes water. Either that or it makes water, I'm not sure, but I could find out if you need to know. Well, that's enough about that. End of subject. Finito.
Arrivadderchey,
D

 

[Guest]

I thought the movie Cry Baby was brilliant, too.

Min, stop rolling your eyes, I loved Cry Baby too.

Maths, you caught the fog perfectly.

Perdita

p.s. let me know if you'd rather not have comments on this thread.

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Maths,

You had a few nice tributes there, I am getting all excited for the next part.

Really liked the part, "I said, My father is still in Sacramento, and I didn't think he was planning to go anywhere. This is my lover."
That was knee slapping good.

Could only give you a 4 vote because, you didn't know what airline terminal was in the middle. What seat number (would have been something like row 4 or 5 seat D), and worst of all what plane manufacture.
The Doublas company never made it in avaition.

McDonnell Douglas MD-80

The DC-9 prototype flew in February 1965 and entered service with Delta in December of that year. It was an immediate commercial success, and 976 were built by Douglas and then the merged McDonnell Douglas (MDC) before it was renamed MD-80 in 1983 The MD-80 was developed into the MD-90 family which, after the takeover of MDC by Boeing in 1997 became the Boeing 717.
The twinjet Boeing 717 is Boeing Company's smallest commercial airliner. It entered service in September 1999, making it one of the newest airliners on the market, and yet one of the oldest - the 717 is a renamed McDonnell Douglas MD-95, which itself was based on the venerable Douglas DC-9 that first flew in 1965.

With total sales of over 2400 units, the long-lived DC-9 family is one of the most successful jet airliners ever made.

Oh and just to keep with the details it burns Jet-A fuel which is Kerosene more or less a refined diesel. Painted white with a black nose cone.

 

[Dirt Man]

Sounds like you had a good time. Anyway, glad to see you back.

As Always
I Am the
Dirt Man

 

[Wills]

McDonald Doublas - is that the same company that made Dubbya?

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

I'll write about the plane ride from Sacramento to Dallas Fort Worth Airport next time.

Oh, be still my beating heart. Maybe MG and Phildo could collaborate.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

I'll write about the plane ride from Sacramento to Dallas Fort Worth Airport next time.

Oh, be still my beating heart. Maybe MG and Phildo could collaborate.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[dr_mabeuse]

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that MG was getting ghost-writing help from DurtGurl. This makes my story of watching the snow melt in my yard seem tame by comparison.

---dr.M.

 

[Guest]

This makes my story of watching the snow melt in my yard seem tame by comparison.

Dear Mab.

Please post a link.

your fan too, Perdita

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Rumple I was not looking to write for Maths nor should she really need my help, I am sure of that. I was having a little fun and giving the few details she might have missed.

Sorry Maths I will stop pointing out the obvious.

I can't say this story has anything close to melting snow. So far it is rather interesting. Of course in a Maths kind of way. What is cool (besides no snow in Panama) about it is the exceptional detail. At the rate of time covered thus far and the time spent on the actual trip, I'd say we have weeks to go. I don't know that would be a math problem to figure out.

Whatever as long as we recieve the same good details when John finally is able to be alone with Maths/Durtgurl/ the cheeky cool one writing her experience. Then it will be worth the slow build up. Write on Maths!

Good Dr. I am sure you could make snow melting a hot story!

 

[MathGirl]

I was having a little fun and giving the few details she might have missed.

Oh, not enough details in my narrative for you. You asked for it, so it will be detail city from now on.

Dr M: Wow, I sure wish I had some snow to watch melt. Some people have all the fun. Sigh

MG


I don't know how Louise can keep up a running monologue like this ad infinitum. That's Swedish, I think. That ad inf... stuff, I mean. Of course you would know more about that than I do. After all, most everyone does. She can, though. Keep it up, I mean. Auntie Louise. But you knew that, didn't you? Of course you did, because I told you. Sort of like a nuclear powered windup toy. Never stops, never even seems to pause for a breath. Maybe they teach that in law school. She went to the University of the Pacific School of Law in Sacramento. That was once known as the McGeorge School of Law, but Mr Pacific apparently bought the naming rights out from under Old Man McGeorge, and there you have it. Mom and Dad went there, too. UOP, that is. Not the law school in Sac, but the pharmacy school in uggh Stockton. That's where they went before they found out there were better places and cleared the hell out of there. I was born in Stockton and spend some of my early formative years there. Fortunately we got out of there before too much damage was done. Dad calls Stockton a shithole, and I have no information that would lead me to disagree with that assessment of the place. Well, that's enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Now where was I? Oh, yes. We were on the airplane, but it was still on the ground, in Sacramento. Being on an airplane really doesn't do much good if the damn thing is motionless on the ground, you know. Of course you do. Well, actually a few miles north northwest of the city. At the airport. Did I mention that it was a McDonnell Douglas 80? Well, it was, and I am going to continue calling it that even though some wise guy has tried to make my account here seem flawed. Huh. Good luck, Chuck. We were sitting up in front, away from the folks from Vallejo, Oakland, and Richmond. Huh. We know about those kind of people, don't we. Of course we do. About twelve o'clock (midnight, not Aye Emm or Pee Emm, but in between) they shut the doors and started spooling up the engines. That's what you call it when they rev up the jets. Spooling up. My ears popped a little when they pressurized the cabin. That's important in aircraft, you know. Getting the engines spooled up and the cabin pressurized. I know about that because John's a pilot and he told me. Well, I have a private license, too, but all I know about it is driving a little Cessna 152. That's the Yugo of private aviation. He knows lots of stuff. John, that is. Anyway, the lady who smelled like scotch whiskey served us drinks before we even started moving. We had a choice between OJ, champagne, and OJ with champagne. That's a cost effective means of having three drinks on the menu while stocking only two ingredients. Ingenious, I think. They call that mixture a mimosa. I don't know why they call it that, but I had one and it was very good. Now that I'm old enough to drink, nobody seems to care how old I am. In fact, I never was asked for an ID on the entire trip. It seems silly to name a drink after a tree, but drinks get named after stranger things. A grasshopper named after a bug, and a martini is named after some wop. Well, maybe a dago. John had plain OJ, he said he didn't want to start getting drunk until we were airborne. He was kidding, though, because he never gets drunk. He sometimes drinks quite a bit, though. The only effect seems to be that he gets hor.... more affectionate, and I love that. I encourage him to drink, but it's almost impossible to get that man to do anything he doesn't really want to do in the first place. I wonder if all men are like that. I've only had experience with one, though, and he's that way. The lady who smelled like scotch whiskey's name was Doris. It probably still is. I have a great aunt named Doris who is kind of a bitch. This lady didn't look like my great aunt Doris at all, and wasn't bitchy. She had naturally red hair, lots of freckles, and big boobs. With the hair, freckles, and boobs, you'd think she would look a lot like my aunt Louise who is amply endowed with that triad of attributes. She didn't look anything like her at all, though. Well enough about that. End of subject. Finito. When we started rolling Doris asked me to get off of John, back in my seat and fasten the lap belt. I had been sitting where the arm rest usually goes, snuggled up to John. I did as she asked, but I didn't like it. I didn't pout or make a scene, though. I like being just as close to John as I can possibly be. He likes it, too, as long as I don't get too affectionate in public. I think couples tend to cuddle on airplanes, though, so maybe that doesn't count as public. Probably because there isn't much else to do. I think the lap belts on airplanes are silly once the thing starts moving over about 20 mph. They might prevent injury on low speed collisions or sudden stops on the ground, but I know they wouldn't do much good in a crash. I think people sort of get turned into something like raspberry jam in a crash. With the bones and all, I guess it would be like the jam with seeds in. There wasn't any other traffic, so we didn't have to wait at the end of the runway. The pilot just turned, lined up, and put the pedal to the metal. That's figurative, of course, but you knew that. There are no gas pedals in aircraft. Rudder pedals, yes; Gas pedals, no. Ergo, there is no pedal to the metal putting. They use knobs. It's called putting the ball to the wall in aircraft. That's a little gratis pilot lore for you. Another bit of pilot-speak is that a good landing is one you walk away from. The way I land my 152, that's about the best I can claim. Now, where was I. Oh... I love that feeling of acceleration. I wonder what the 0-60 and 0-100 times are for a MD 80. What their ET would be on a drag strip. That's a quarter mile from a standing start, and ET means the elapsed time to get there, in case you are unfamiliar with the art and science of drag racing. Since I was sitting next to the window, I could see that it was still pretty foggy out there. In case I've neglected to mention it, there's a lot of water out in that area, what with the rivers and rice fields, so there's lots of fog when the conditions are right. I held John's hand tightly with both of mine during takeoff. Not because I was scared, but because I was excited, exhilirated, and like to touch him. We hadn't been together for a long time, and we still hadn't had a chance to ... be intimate. I hated the noise when the landing gear came up and the doors closed. It always sounds like something fell off the plane. It didn't, though. Out the window I could see that it was pretty foggy out there, and I could see cars moving on I-5. It's also Highway 99 in that area, in case I hadn't mentioned it. That sort of thing is important to some people, and you might be one of them. You never know. You could be out there sometime in a car when it's foggy and dark, and knowing little facts like that could save your ass. The rest of you, too. Anyway, the plane climbed, turned, and I guess headed sort of southeast, since that was the direction we wanted to go, so why go towards anything else. I mean Dallas TX is in that general direction from Sacramento. I don't know the compass heading, but I could probably find out if you need to know. 135 would be a good working estimate. I'll bet you would eventually run into Texas on a heading of 135, but we all know that Texas is quite a large target. The navigation would need a little fine tuning if you wanted to actually find DFW International Airport, which is, as I mentioned, where we wanted to go. We climbed pretty rapidly, because I suppose the pilot didn't want to run into the Sierra Nevada mountains. They're between California and Texas, you know, but much closer to the California end of the trip. There had been a storm the week before, so I'm sure there was a lot of scenic snow on the mountains, and I was sitting next to the window and could see out. It was midnight, though, so what I mainly saw was dark. It wasn't really midnight, actually. It was about 00:15 aye emm in the morning when we took off. I know you appreciate precision and accuracy, so I'm trying to supply as much of it as possible while remaining comprehensive in my approach to informational details. By the time we had reached our cruising altitude of 32K feet we were past the mountains and somewhere over Nevada. It's over that way, you know, and there's lots of it. Well, of course you do. The pilot told us that on the PA system. About Nevada being there, I mean. His name was Tom something. I doubt I could find out his last name even if you need to know, so I'd rather you didn't ask. I figured it was okay to get rid of the seat belt, so I did and moved back over next to John. That made it hard to see out the window, but there wasn't anything out there but dark, anyway, so I didn't miss anything. I'd rather sit close to John than look out the window, even during they day when there might be something to see. Although there wasn't much alcohol in my mimosa, I could feel a nice little buzz since I have never built up a tolerance to alcohol. I hardly ever drink when I'm not with John. Oh, I occasionally have a weak vodka tonic with Auntie, but that's all. Anyway, Doris asked if I'd like another one, and I said yes. John had a mimosa, too, that time. As Doris leaned over to pick up my glass (it was a champagne flute, actually. They do that in first class. Supply champagne flutes instead of those plastic cups they use in back.) I'm not at all sure why they call those things flutes. I mean, they're not at all like the wind instruments you see in bands and orchestras. You know, those things that are like piccolos but a lot bigger. There's probably a message in that (the flute thing, I mean), but I'm afraid I fail to see it. Anyway, when Doris leaned over I had an urge to squeeze one of her plump boobies. I thought they were too big to be real, and I wanted to see what they felt like. Auntie let me squeeze one of hers once, and it was harder than a real boob. At least it was harder than mine, and that's the only one I'd ever felt except Georgia's, and hers were home grown and felt like mine except bigger. Auntie's boobies are the older silicone implants. They're firmer and don't wiggle like real titties. They don't sag, either, and that's why Louise has such great boobs for such an old girl. When she's eighty seven years old and in a nursing home, she will probably still have those big stand-up bazongas. Since I was sitting next to the window, Doris had to lean right over John to reach my glass, and that put her breasts almost in his face. He knew I was watching, and he opened his mouth and moved like he wanted to bite one of Doris's titties. That made me giggle, and Doris probably thought I was crazy since she hadn't seen what John did. When Doris left I asked John if he thought her bra was full of all Doris, and he said he didn't know, but probably not. He told me to ask her. I didn't though, but I wanted to. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I can see that I'm not going to get us to Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport in this edition. After all, I've only gotten us to cruising altitude (32,000 feet) and over Nevada. I know Nevada is a big place, but that's the best I can do because I didn't have a GPS gizmo. We hadn't even gotten to the Rocky Mountains, and they're between California and Texas, you know. Well, of course you do. Slightly on the Texas side of the trip, I think. I was pretty sure 32K feet would get us over them, because Mount Everest is a little less and 30K feet, and the Rockies aren't nearly that high. That was a good feeling, knowing we were unlikely to run into anything. Anyway, Tom was up there keeping an eye out just in case anything suddenly loomed. I'll really try to get us to DFW next time, but I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you.
Addieaus,
D

 

[MathGirl]

Originally posted by perdita let me know if you'd rather not have comments on this thread.

Dear Perdita,
Oh, comments are always welcome. I'd especially like to hear more from 7 on the subject of airliner arcana and nomenclature. I find that subject infinitely fascinating.
MG

Oh, a little backtrack to clear up a couple of loose ends from the previous letter. I hate those things. Loose ends, I mean. Well, of course you knew that. I should have mentioned that Interstate 5 (it's also Highway 99 in that area) proceeds north all the way to Canada and even Oregon. It's not also Highway 99 all the way, though, and I don't think that's fair. North of Sacramento, the highway goes through (actually tangential to) such lovely spots as Woodland and Arbuckle. It passes fairly near Clear Lake which stinks because the lake is full of rotting vegetation. It isn't clear at all, and I get very upset whenever I think about the chicanery involved in the outright lie about the name of the place. I feel my outrage is entirely justified, and I'm sure you feel the same way. You sure would if you ever saw and smelled the place. Naming a dump like that Clear Lake is a transparent and shoddy attempt to lure unwary tourists who go there expecting to frolic in and on a lake whose waters are transparent. Ha! Good luck, Chuck. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Now that I have that cleared up, I can get back to the plane ride in a generally southeasterly direction from Sacramento to Dallas. We were on our way to San Francisco, of course, but via the back way. I assume we went in a straight line, because we were high enough (32K feet) so we didn't have to dodge anything. Well, I guess we would have had to avoid other aircraft, but I think radar and air traffic controllers take care of that stuff. If we did, Tom (that was the pilot's name, in case I didn't mention it) didn't tell us anything about it. I still can't remember Tom's last name, and I'm not sure he even told us. He probably did, though. I mean he wouldn't have introduced himself as "Captain Tom" over the PA system. That would have sounded like he was running a Saturday morning cartoon show for kids. Not a good image for someone who is in control of a MD 80 at 32K feet and going 500+ knots. By the way, did you know that a knot is one minute of the earth's circumference? It works out to about 1.1 miles. Just in case you didn't know that I thought you should. We pilots know all about that stuff. Some more than others, of course. We were about half an hour into our flight, and that put us somewhere over Nevada at 32K feet. Well, maybe closer to an hour after takeoff which was about fifteen minutes after midnight. Takeoff, that is. That's PST, of course. I'm sure there was a lot of wasteland and sagebrush and stuff down there, because Nevada is like that. Probably grizzled old miners carrying picks and leading burros, too. Anyway, you can't see much in the way of geographical features from six miles up, let alone grizzled old miners with picks and burros, and it was basically dark anyway. Besides that, I was sitting next to John, snuggled up to him, and I wasn't looking out the window. Even if I had looked out, I would have mostly seen dark. I had finished my second mimosa, which is OJ and champagne, and was feeling pleasantly sleepy. John had his arm around me, and I had my face snuggled up to his chest. John was wearing his cool leather bomber jacket which is made of really soft leather and feels good against my face. It smells kind of like a new car, at least new Mercedez Benzes which have leather upholstery. Most women would leave makeup tracks on their man doing that, but I don't wear much. If I was always leaving makeup tracks on John, he wouldn't let me snuggle. He's sort of fastidious, and I like that. Anyway, I'd rather snuggle than be beautiful, so I don't wear much makeup. John says I don't need it anyway, and I think that's sweet of him. He tends to be sweet to me, and I love that. He isn't that way to much of anyone else, though. I mean, I seldom (actually, never) hear anyone mention what a sweet guy he is. Saccharinity, in other words, is not one of his identifying personality traits. He's sometimes sort of gruff with people. Never rude, though. Well, I did hear him call a guy an asshole once, and I guess that qualifies as rude, but he doesn't make a habit of it. The guy actually was an asshole. Anyway, he treats me nicer than anyone else because he loves me, and he doesn't love those other people. Since Georgia died, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one he loves. No, I'm certain of that. That's a good reason to be nice to me. Sometimes I do or say something silly and act my age, and it embarrasses him. He just gives me that look, and I stop it. I hate to do anything to displease him, because I love him so much. I do that less and less lately. Displease him, I mean. Well, of course you knew that, didn't you? Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Those two mixtures of OJ and champagne (they serve them in a champagne flute and call them mimosas, by the way) gave me a full bladder, and I had to pee. I've found that a full bladder and having to pee are so interrelated that they're almost synonomous. I was really comfy and feeling warm, sleepy and romantic, but needing to pee was sort of distracting. I knew I'd have to do it sooner or later, because needing to pee is like that. It never gets better. I'm sure it's like that with most people. Have you ever noticed anything to contradict that? I thought not. Fat chance, moosebreath. I sure hope I can finish telling you about my trip this week, but things are not exactly proceeding with alacrity, are they? Or course they aren't. With considerable reluctance, I got myself out from under John's arm and went to the restroom. When you ride up front, the restrooms are much closer and larger than in the back where the poor people ride. Well, I guess they're not really poor, or they wouldn't be flying. They would probably be taking the bus or just staying home. Also, there are more restrooms per capita, so there aren't a bunch of people lined up to use them and waiting for you to finish. In the restroom, I mean. That's important, you know, especially if you wear panty hose. I hadn't been paying attention, but when I got in there it was obvious that someone had gotten to the restroom before I did. Not only that, they'd had a massive and nasty BM. I felt kind of sorry for someone who had to go that badly on an airplane, but I also resented their leaving that stench in there for me. Well, the ventilaton cleared it pretty rapidly and that was sure a relief. As usual, I had a terrible time with the damned panty hose, and I was sure I was going to rip them. My panties weren't a problem, though, because I wasn't wearing any. That's unusual for me. I don't know why I didn't wear any that time, I just felt ... daring. It wasn't as if there was anything exposed, though, because pantyhose are like armour, and I wore the kind with the little cotton panel in the crotch. I think panties are sort of optional when wearing that particular model of pantyhose. I mean, it's not as if .... Oh, never mind. Where was I? Oh ... John got me some crotchless PH once, but I didn't think they would be appropriate for traveling. I seriously thought about it, though, and I packed them in my luggage in case a special occcasion came along. I mean, they hardly take up any space in a suitcase, and who knows when a crotchless panty hose event might occur? I always think it's best to think ahead and be prepared for any eventuality. Especially eventualities of the crotchless panty hose kind. Well, I finally got finished peeing and those stupid pantyhose back up. On my way back to my seat, I looked around to see if I could tell who had done that awful deed in the restroom, but nobody looked guilty. Who knows, maybe it was Doris. Anyway, nobody raised their hand and said, "Yep, it was me that took that terrible dump. Sorry about that." I guess I'll never know, and I suppose it was just as well. I'd hate to have someone go in there and think it was me that left that bomb, though. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I'm afraid I didn't get us much closer to DFW, which is in a southeasterly direction from our point of departure, in this letter. That was Sacramento, in case your mind has been wandering. I don't know how many miles we covered in the time it took me to go to and from the restroom, but it wasn't many when you consider the total number of miles from Sacramento to DFW. Even fewer if you use knots. You now know what a knot is, because I told you. Actually a nautical mile, of course, and it really should be spelled naut. Nobody spells it that way though, and I really don't think it's all that important in the overall scheme of things. Ummm, I'd better close now. I sure hope I can get us to DFW today, but quite a few things happened on that flight that I'm sure you will want to hear about. I'm really glad to get the description of that awful BM out of the way. I seriously thought about leaving it out, but I didn't feel the description of my trip would be complete without at least mentioning it. I'm sure you feel the same way. Of course you do. You're like that. I'll do my best to cover more knots in the next letter, but there are lots of things to tell you about so don't put any money on it.
A doo, (that's French)
Me

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Please, please, please! Give us more! The anticipation is killing me.

 

[NoJo]

MG, I took the libery of posting your first post to this thread on the "Has Anyone Seen the Christ" thread as I assume this was your intention.

 

[MathGirl]

MG, I took the libery of posting your first post to this thread on the "Has Anyone Seen the Christ" thread as I assume this was your intention.

Dear SubJ,
Umm... Yes, yes it was.
MG
Ps. The plate of stuff in your AV looks like it had already been eaten once. Urggl


Well, I'm back again with more minutae about my peregrinations. I was coming back from the restroom and I saw John putting his briefcase under the seat. He had apparently gotten it down from the overhead storage compartment. They have those on MD 80s, you know. In fact, they have them on all airliners, I think. The overhead storage compartments we're concerned about here, though, were on a MD80, and more specifically, the particular one on which we were flying. I certainly wouldn't subject you to a discussion of stuff they have on the thousands of airliners which neither of us have or are ever likely to see, let alone be on. No way, Jose. This is difficult enough as it is, without dragging the acoutrements of unknown airliners into it. They have a lot of neat things on those aircraft, especially if you sit up front. There were only about five couples in first class, so that meant there was about one attendant per couple. Doris seemed to have adopted us, and I don't think it was because she was attracted to me. John was the one into whose face she wanted to stick those big boobies. He seems to have that effect on women. I mean, he had that effect on me even before I was even a woman. I've been in love with John since I was about eight years old. Actually, it was probably more of a crush for the first years, but the feeling was there. John and I have known each other since I was too young to actually know anyone. I mean, he has been Dad's best friend forever, and he first saw me when I was only a few days old. I doubt that we were formally introduced, because about all I could do in those days was bawl and mess my diapers. Hard to do much in the way of social amenities when one person is screaming and soiling themself. Had I not progressed beyond that stage of development, I seriously doubt that John would have been attracted to me, and I could hardly blame him. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Anyway, I sat back down in my seat which was next to the window, which I believe I already mentioned at least once. Of course I did. Mention it, I mean. I guess the drinks had the same effect on John as they did on me, bladder wise, because he got up and went to the restroom. I was glad to see him use the one I didn't use, because I was afraid the remains of that awful BM I mentioned earlier might still be in there and he would think it was me. I know that's silly because everyone does it and you can't control the quality of what comes out your bottom, but, well, this was supposed to be romantic. It's hard to think of anything less romantic than what I walked into when I used that restroom. Can you? I didn't think so. Well, enough about that, except to say that the miasma when I first went in there was like the smog in Mexico City. It was like you could drive a nail into it and hang your coat on it. Anyway, John made the round trip to the restroom a lot faster than I did. Even without pantyhose factored in, men are a lot better constructed than women when it comes to urination. With a man, he can go just about anywhere. The world's his urinal, and some men make maximum use of that advantage. A woman can't even squat and do it outdoors without peeing all over her ankles and into her shoes. At least I can't. John thinks God was displaying a sense of humor when He made women. He put the recreational area between the water works and the waste disposal site. I think that's sort of gross, but there's also a lot of truth in it. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Where was I? Oh, we were zooming along in that MD 80 at 32K feet and 500+ knots. I assume Tom was still driving, but he probably had it on autopilot and his feet up. After John got seated again, he leaned over and kissed me. When he tried to stop kissing me, I wasn't having that. I put my arms around him and put my tongue in his mouth. I mean, I hadn't been kissed for hours, and I really needed it. When I finally let him go, I had to wipe a little lipstick off him. I didn't have any left on me at all, but I didn't care. He finally got me settled down and took a small box beautifully wrapped in silver paper out of the inside pocket of his coat. It had a nice red bow on it that was a little crushed, like it had done some traveling. We hadn't been together since before Christmas, and we decided our trip from Sac to SF would include Christmas. I think that was a good idea, because we were the only ones doing Christmas at that time, and we could give each other our undivided attention. I was hoping someone would ask why we were doing Christmas in February. I was going to invent some sort of story about belonging to an arcane and unorthodox Jewish-Muslim-Baptist sect that combined Christmas, Passover, and Ramadan into one big celebration in February. Nobody asked, though, so I never got to tell my little story. Where was I before the Christmas thing came up? Oh, the package. I tried to act cool, but I'd been around John enough to know that the really good stuff came in small, beautifully wrapped packages. To wit, the big rock I wear on my left hand came in a rather puny box. I probably squealed or something. Anyway I didn't even try to be neat opening the thing and just tore off the silver paper. It was a little black velvet jewelry box with a gold crest on it that said something about somebody's jewelry store, London. I could go look and tell you more specifically about the jewler, but I don't feel like it. Please don't take that personally, I'm just lazy and would treat anyone the same way. I opened it up and I guess I shrieked or screamed, because Doris came running, thinking I was in distress or being abused in some way. Au contriaire, Pierre. It was a pair of diamond stud earrings. Just a glance confirmed that we were not dealing with rhinestones. BIG diamonds; couple of karats. Each, that is, not that total gem weight crap which some cheap jewlery stores use in ads to make little diamonds sound like more. A karat, by the way, is approximately 200 milligrams. That's not much weight, but when you're dealing with center cut diamonds, a little goes a long way. They're beautiful. My new earrings, I mean. Doris just said Oh, my God. I yanked off the cheap earrings I was wearing and got the diamonds in my earholes as quickly as I could, stabbing my earlobe in the process but not drawing blood. Doris was nice enough to leave us alone while I thanked John as best I could in public. Some people had been asleep, but I made such a commotion that everyone woke up and wondered what the hell was going on. Of course I had to get to the restroom as fast as possible to use the mirror, and I stumbled and almost fell down in the aisle. I felt like an idiot, but I was too excited about my earrings to let it bother me much. They looked very nice in the restroom mirror, and I thought they went well with the big rock I wear on my left hand which I'm sure I mentioned only a few seconds ago. It may be unnecessary, but I suppose I should specify that I wear that rock on the RING FINGER of the left hand, not on the hand itself. I suppose the finger is part of the hand, but were getting into semantics and metaphysics here, and I try to avoid that. Did I ever mention that I'm a left hander? Well, I am. Always have been, always will be. Being a southpaw comes in handy sometimes, but it's usually a pisser. Try using scissors with your left hand sometime. No way, Jose. By the way, the term southpaw is derived from baseball. The way baseball diamonds are set up, a left handed pitcher's left arm is on the south side. Unless he's facing the flag in center field during the Star Spangled Banner, of course. Or in one Toronto or Montreal suffering through Oh Canada. Wondering why right handers are not called northpaws has cause me considerable inner turmoil over the years, but I'm mostly worked through that. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Well, after that all died down (the package, earrings, trip to the restroom to look, etc.), I was back in my seat next to the window, but I was snuggled up to John sitting where the armrest would have been if he hadn't folded it up, so I was sort of in the window seat but I don't wish to give the impression that I was in juxtaposition to the actual window. I was not, and I do not intend to convey the impression that I might have been. Details are important, don't you think? Of course you do. The posts of the earrings were sharp, and they poked me when I snuggled, but I didn't care. I had that fixed in San Juan. The post sharpness, I mean. Puerto Rico, to be specific. After all, there are San Juans, St Johns, etc. all over the map. Just get an atlas and count them sometime if you doubt my word. You would be wasting your time, though, because I'm right. Ummm.... Oh ... We were still at about 32K feet in that MD 80, and I'm sure Tom and whoever else was up there didn't even know about all the excitement. The earring thing, I mean. By the way, I was tempted to take a stroll through the back where the cheap seats are, just to show off my new earrings. I was afraid I might get mugged, though, so I didn't. Of course, I may have just been ignored, but that's probably better than getting mugged. I'm not sure I have enough information to make a decisive statement about that, but I'm going in that direction at the present time. Where was I? Oh... John had Doris bring him a cup of coffee. He said he couldn't sleep on airplanes anyway, and didn't want to get roaring drunk until we were on our way from DFW to Miami. He was just kidding, though, because he never gets drunk, roaring or otherwise. In fact, John never gets roaring anything, because he's the quiet type. At least he is when I'm around. He says I make enough noise for a whole crowd, and waaayy more than enough for two. Just hor... affectionate. That's how John gets when he drinks, I mean. I could hardly wait for him to start drinking, because I was needing some affection. It seemed to still be mainly dark outside, so I didn't pay much attention. I figured we were on mountain standard by that time, but I didn't bother so reset my watch. I mean, I couldn't be constantly adjusting my watch just to observe the time zones, could I? Of course not. In a situation like that, there would hardly be time for anything else. You would barely get the watch adjusted and the little stem thingie back in, and it would be time to pull it out and reset the damn thing all over again. I realize that last phrase in that sentence was a redundancy, but don't hold your breath until it's changed. Good luck, Chuck. I just wasn't going to put myself through the agony of all that. Endless time zone changing and watch setting, that is. Huh. Fat chance, Moosebreath. We were going to be in four or six different time zones that day and I'd wait for Miami and just set it once. Catch up, I mean. Timewise, that is. I was feeling sleepy, but I was really too excited to sleep. Doris offered to bring me a blanket and pillow, but I decided I liked using John better. As a pillow, I mean. He isn't much good at all in the blanket role. He didn't seem to mind, but his arm went so sleep from time to time and he had to roust me to restore the circulation. I will have more to say on that subject in the future. You can count on that, but you must restrain your enthusiasm until the matter can be presented in the full ripeness of time. Well that's enough for now. End of subject. Finito.

 

[Guest]

MG, I took the libery of posting your first post to this thread on the "Has Anyone Seen the Christ" thread as I assume this was your intention.

Brilliant, Jose. Have a , .

Perdita

 

[NoJo]

P.S. MG, I really like your breathless writing. It's funny and entertaining.

P.P.S. My Av is the Cockney delicacy jellied eels.

P.P.P.S. P, I'll have a big red comma. Absolutely.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Oh, goodness to my gracious, the tension and suspence are becoming unbearable. Just the thought of the tales we'll hear about MG in Big D, or at least the D/FW airport, is enough to make a strong man plotz.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[mtnman2003]

YAWN...........

Too early this morning....... can't wake up!

fun story, auntie would be proud!! and telling it like she could...

I could hear you breathless, just going 90-miles an hour!

welcome back MG

Mtn

 

[pop_54]

Hmmmm! Very nice dear. Umm... welcome back.

Must go uncross my eyes.