Two Country Bumpkins Fly First Class

We traveled to Colorado to celebrate the marriage of our son Todd and his fiancée Jackie.  We had a 6 AM flight, which means, at least  to my wife, that we have to get up at 2 AM to drive to the airport and then basically sit around for a few hours, twiddling our thumbs and chewing on grass stalks. I would whittle, but they probably would confiscate my knife.  So after a quick nap, I now have 1 ½ hours of sleep to last me all day.  Plus we will be traveling through two time zones.  This should be fun.    Oh and we decided to fly first class.  Ah yep, that’s right, two yokels flyin’ first class in an air-o-plane.  

We get off to an inauspicious start.  First off, our seats are on opposite ends of the cabin.  I know, I know, first world problems, but for my first time in first class, I would at least like to sit next to my wife.    Luckily a kind soul changes seats with us, allowing us to sit next to each other.  Nice.

We settle into our comfortable, roomy, luxury seats and relax.  Ahh! After first class boards, the rest of the passengers begin their death march into economy class.  The passengers are giving us the death stare because of our sudden elevated status.  You can see the hate and loathing in their eyes.  I know that stare.  You know that stare. We used to give that stare all of time when we were peons.   Oh well, la-de-dah.

So we start off with hot, fresh coffee brewed to our exact specifications, in a china cup.  Almost as good as room service.  We then discover all of the perks that first class (henceforth known as FC) has to offer.  Soft blankets, overstuffed pillows, refreshment trays hidden in the seats.  Our own closets for clothing and of course our own bathroom. Enough leg room for someone taller than 3 feet.  Plus, in the event that the oxygen masks come flying out, we get first class oxygen and (at least according to the stewardess) the seat cushions actually do work as floatation devices.  This is FC peace of mind ladies and gents. 

After sipping my delicious coffee, I decide to have a drink.  My rationale is, it’s 6 AM here, but somewhere in the world it’s 5 PM so I order a Bloody Mary.  It’s an unusual feeling to get shit-faced so early in the morning, but hey, it’s FC and I want to get my money’s worth. 

The usual assortment of business travelers are in the FC cabin with us.  Also, there was a young couple with customized baseball jerseys stenciled with “Just Married 5/1/15,” on the front and Bride and Groom embroidered on the back.  Adorable right?  Adorable 3 ½ months ago when they actually WERE just married.  Not so cute as they approach their first anniversary. 

Suddenly the stewardess does something out of the ordinary; she refills my coffee cup without me even asking.  Whoa this is big.  Then she brings me another Bloody Mary.  Things are getting interesting and it’s only 7 AM. 

We reach our first destination, Charlotte, North Carolina.  First on, first off when you fly FC.  We collect our stuff and I sort of wobble over to a seat in the concourse to wait for the next plane to take us to Denver.  After a short layover we begin the final leg.  Just like the first one, we are separated in the FC cabin.  Another kind person agrees to change seats and off we go.  Seriously, the people in FC are so accommodating.  Imagine asking someone in coach to trade an aisle seat for a middle one.  Yeah! See how far that gets you.  We settle in and put our smug expressions on to deflect the death stares from the people boarding in coach.  And boy do they take a long time to board.  Kids, bags, carry-ons, packages of all sorts.  You know, if they worked a little harder then maybe they too could fly in the rarified FC air.  Just sayin’.

A young couple boards the plane with, you guessed it, a baby.  Well under ordinary circumstances that would be a cause for alarm, because we all know the sheer joy of flying with a baby.  The squirming, the screaming, the crying, did I mention screaming?  Well that won’t bother us because we are in FC and they are in… Oh shit, they are in FC too. And right behind us.  Let’s hope she put some whiskey in that bottle because this might get ugly real quick. 

While the riff-raff in coach fight over a bag of pretzels, our flight attendant goes around taking orders for breakfast.  I choose quiche.  Really, they had quiche for breakfast.  I’m not making that up.  The quiche comes with herbed potatoes, buttermilk biscuits with real butter and jam, and fresh fruit with strawberries the size of a billiard balls.  And get this, real cloth napkins and metal silverware.  Folks, this is what’s called civilization. The cabin quickly fills with aroma of eggs, and cheese and potatoes.  Ahhh!  For years I smelled that in coach and thought in my crazed, starving state, I was hallucinating.  Well I wasn’t.  I’ve been vindicated.  They really have edible food in FC.  And in such abundance.  Another quiche?  Sure.  Another Bloody Mary?  Shhhure thingy.  More coffee?  Hit me.

After breakfast; you guessed it, hot towels.  Ahhh.  And not the pre-moistened towelettes.  Nope.  Real. Terry cloth. Towels.  What’s next?  Mani-pedi? Massage? 

The rest of the trip was quiet and uneventful.  Uneventful because I was sleeping off a snootful of Bloody Mary’s in my large comfy FC seat.  The baby didn’t make a peep. The service was top-notch and the landing smooth.  Hello Denver! Nice to make your acquaintance. 

Cape Cod, The Prequel, Our Drive To Paradise

Driving to Cape Cod this year was an ordeal; and that’s putting it mildly.  It was 5 ½ hours of being tortured by every type of driver that I hate.  And you do too.  We start off with the weaver.  Already you know what this jerk is all about. He’s in a lowered Honda Civic with orange rims and a loud muffler.  In and out of traffic, switching lanes without signaling.  Darting into the tiniest of spaces. You know this guy.  Hey buddy, pal, you want to end your life, no problem.  But count me out.

The cutter is a particularly arrogant asshole in that he or she is too good to wait with the servants, peons, and other assorted little people on something so trivial as a five-mile backup to the bridge.  No, they try to zip right in and jack your spot.  Didn’t you know? It’s their right. Don’t let him cut in front of you.  You say. But if you don’t, YOU cause the 10-car pile up.  Who needs that grief?   So you be a gentleman and take the high road by letting him in, clenching the steering wheel, gritting your teeth, muttering under your breath if you have kids in the car, screaming and cursing if you don't.  

The most loathsome creatures of all are ones who drive in the breakdown lane.  Some d-bag in a late model minivan, stuffed to the gills with kids and gear, bombing down the road, just kicking up dirt and debris, like nobody’s business, without a care in world. La-de-dah-de-dah.  Yes! You know this lowlife because they are the same ones that don’t know how to count in the 12 item or less aisle.  The same ones that take up two spaces in the parking lot; both of them handicapped.  The same ones who never have exact change but always end up in the exact change lane.   “Look kids,” he says, “This is how d-bags drive. Take notes.” 

Well, much to my delight, I would like to tell you that they met with an untimely bump in their vacation plans. Oh yes.  Cop cars planted themselves at both ends of the breakdown lane.  No one would let them back in.  It was a thing of beauty.  Drivers started cheering and no one posted a police presence on WAZE.  Yes! Finally, a cop when you needed one!

Cape Cod, The Final Installment

It’s about 3:30 in the afternoon on a gorgeous sunny day, and the wind has picked up.  Two young geniuses are pushing their expensive mountain bikes through the rutted sand.  Sand is flying around either being windblown or kicked up by these two boys.  You don’t have to be an engineer to figure out that sand, grit, and salt water aren’t recommended around trivial bike things like brakes and shifters. 

Pulling up the rear are the mom, dad and grandma, “The Talking Caboose.”  You see, grandma is yacking it up on her phone non-stop for the whole world to hear. 

Dad is, of course, carrying what looks like a tent.  This should be fun to watch. 

The boys stop and of course plant their bikes on the wet sand, and to add insult to injury, perpendicular to the wind; thus exposing the entire length of the bike to the wind. Immediately the wind picks up and blows both bikes over into the salty, wet sand. Now blowing sand and grit, not to mention salt water is finding its way into every nook and cranny of these two bikes. Next stop bike shop. 

While the bro’s are watching their bikes fall down in the sand and get ruined, dad whips out, you guessed it, the tent.  Apparently, putting up tents during extremely windy conditions is the new black on Cape Cod this year.  In any event, it is a thing of beauty to witness. Dad is nearly airborne since the tent has caught wind and he is struggling to keep his feet on the ground.  Mom pulls out of the bag a rod-like apparatus that snaps open and extend about 12 feet.  As these rods whip in the wind, they nearly poke the out eyes out of a nearby toddler, innocently playing in the sand.  These deadly rods are Jedi light sabers on steroids.  Grandma is oblivious to everything because she is still talking non-stop on her phone.

Dad is now sitting on the tent while mom starts to thread the rods into the loops on the tent.  The wind is buffeting them around and the tent goes airborne again.  Whoever said that two heads are better than one never met these two.  This tent refuses to stay on the ground. Undeterred, dad tries a new tack; he reverts to caveman days by using a rock to hammer smooth metal pegs into the wet sand in an attempt to keep the tent on the ground.  Will it hold?  Not!  He bangs one peg in, turns his back to get the second peg and the first one pulls out.  Repeat. After three failures you want to go over to him and shake some sense into his head.  “IT WON’T WORK!”  While dad is doing his Neanderthal shtick, mom finally succeeds in getting the rods into the tent, but not before nearly shish-kababing grandma.  Grandma on the other hand doesn’t even bat an eyelash being so engrossed in her conversation on the phone.  The two boys are picking up their bikes for what seems the hundredth time. Finally the tent is up but won’t stay on the ground.  Solution? Insert grandma inside the tent and weigh her down with small boulders.  I kid you not.

Cape Cod, The Continuing Saga; Part 5 The Woman With Inappropriate Footwear

The Woman With Inappropriate Footwear

My wife and I are sitting on the beach soaking up the sun, listening to the Beach Boys on Spotify, drinking some Dark and Stormy’s and generally having a great time.  The beach is located on Lewis Bay. Exactly a seven minute walk (yes my OCD demanded that I time it) from our rental to a quiet, secluded, sandy and really freakin’ rocky beach. Four years ago when we first came here we didn’t know about the rocks. One trip into the water necessitated a visit to the local “surf shop” for a pair of sturdy beach shoes. 

As I’m relaxing on the shore I spy a middle-aged couple emerging from the surf.  Nothing out of the ordinary there.  Well, as she plods towards us I look at down and see that she has high heels on.  High heels?  On a beach? Not just any pair of high heels.  No, that would be simply ridiculous.  But stiletto high heels.  That’s right.  I mean what possibly could have gone through her head that morning.  Hmmmm.  Let’s see.  We are going to the beach today.  What should I wear? How about something that no one in their right mind would wear.  I know.  High heels. 

Remember that a beach has sand.  Lots of it.  It’s soft, its squishy, it’s rutted with holes, dips, divots and ruined sand castles.  She is holding onto her husband for dear life as they slowly trudge up the beach.  As they pass us I hear them speaking what sounds like Russian. 

Well then, that would explain this cultural gaffe.  They are obviously unfamiliar with American customs such as wearing sandals, flip-flops, or anything but high heels to the beach.  Perfectly understandable. She almost keels over as she nearly misses a two-foot deep hole in the sand.  We hear hubby mutter something in Russian, probably telling her that the bikini was enough and she should have left the 4-inch spikes at home. This is the beach, my little babushka, not the Victoria Secret runway!

By Barry and Sallyanne Scott 

Cape Cod, The Continuing Saga; Part 4 The Accidental Nudist

The Accidental Nudist

Normally, kids change from their swimsuits to dry clothing by having mom or dad wrap a towel around them.  Right?  Well, fast-forward, and picture a 70 something woman doing the same thing with the husband holding the towel. We are simply changing our clothing.  What could possibly go wrong? Oh, and did I mention it was a very windy day?

The hubs is holding onto the towel and trying to protect his wife from the elements. She is squirming away struggling to get out of her very wet one piece and into dry clothing. Then the wind picks and whips the towel out of his hands.  What?  All of a sudden our family friendly beach gets a lot hotter.  She flashes the entire beach with tits and ass.  Moms are holding their hands over their children’s eyes.  My wife is holding her hand over my eyes.  Hey no fair!  The husband madly grabs at the towel and wraps it around his beloved stripper of a wife in a sad attempt to preserve any dignity that she has left.

After a few more minutes of changing in the makeshift cabana, the wife emerges once again.  As I’m looking at her something is slightly amiss. Something is not quite there.  Well I’ll tell you what is not there; she is not wearing a shirt.  No, she is wearing just her bra and shorts.  Well apparently she lost all of her dignity when she flashed the beach because she is gathering up the chairs, towels, coolers and such prancing around in her bra.  I scan the beach and every guy within flashing distance is riveted on her.  It’s not every day that we get to see a naked woman on a beach; even if she is old enough to be our grandmother.  Maybe on second thought…

Then after they are ready to go, she nonchalantly pulls on her shirt.  Well who doesn’t love a free show right?  Too bad no one stuck a few dollars in her bra! 

By Barry and Sallyanne Scott