Down the Hall on Your Left

This site is a blog about what has been coasting through my consciousness lately. The things I post will be reflections that I see of the world around me. You may not agree with me or like what I say. In either case – you’ll get over it and I can live with it if it makes you unhappy. Please feel free to leave comments if you wish . All postings are: copyright 2014 – 2021

Don’t Make Me Cry Like That

airport sleeping


SOMETIMES YOU CAN HAVE TOO MUCH of a good thing. It can cause your brain to short circuit and make you do things you would never do in your real life. Let me tell you about such an incident involving one of the acolytes (baristas) at the Chapel of St. Arbucks.

Sister Mary Frappuccino was on vacation over the last week or so. She and her Main Squeeze (hereafter referred to as “Mr. M.S.”) had gone to the resort beaches of Cabo San Lucas in Baja California. She belongs to a very liberal order so we’re all cool with it.

She was due back at her espresso machine yesterday morning, but she and her Mr. M.S. were returning on a flight that was going through Dallas. If I had known of this ahead of time I would have told her, “Don’t ever fly through Dallas. It is a black hole for travel plans.”

I have flown back and forth to Texas twice a year for twelve years and I have learned the hard way to avoid Dallas. There must be something in the water there that causes delays, cancellations, and screw-ups. My wife (The charming and sweetheart Rev. Dawn) and I have been stranded overnight there several times or wasted countless hours of quality time watching kids playing on the moving walkways (essentially nothing more than a flat escalator that never gets you to the next floor.) We try to fly through Houston when we can and even then we prefer the smaller Houston Hobby Airport rather than the Houston Bush monstrosity.

Enough diversion. Now back to our main story.

Sure enough, Sister Mary Frappuccino and her beau were hung out to dry in Dallas overnight.

They arrived back in Terre Haute (That’s French for, “Don’t fly through Dallas.”) a day late. She was at the Chapel this morning and told me about her last day of vacation in Mexico. She was bored. Mr. M.S. must be something, eh?

She said that she knew it was time to come home when she found herself stretched out sunning by the pool and her brain was reciting the drink choices of her regular customers back in Terre Haute. I almost burst into tears. Quelle tragique!

If the warm tropical sunshine and soft breezes off the ocean, to say nothing of unlimited piña coladas, couldn’t keep you sufficiently brain dead there is a serious flaw in your programming. It is time for a recreational motherboard defragging and another round of Margaritas – perhaps several rounds.

When she told me her sad story I went and grabbed some napkins. I told everyone it was allergies causing my eyes to water so profusely. I hadn’t heard a story so disturbing since I learned that Sandy Koufax was retiring from baseball.

I know that this young lady will move on with her life. She might even forget having her mind wander back to work like that. We can only hope.

But there is one thing I hope she never forgets and keeps with her forever: DON’T FLY THROUGH DALLAS!

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