I'm home. Finally. Two weeks in that arid wasteland left me looking, and feeling, a bit like King Tut. I'm talking the current version. I don't know how you desert rats do it. But as luck would have it, even as we enter the cool down period of South Florida, where temperatures and humidity drop for a few months, we have an unlikely hurricane tossing a few more drops of moisture our way. And I need it. Like I need a vacation. And my trip to Las Vegas wasn't a vacation. And after flying all day Friday to get home, (in uniform so I could cheat my way through security, which also has the unfortunate effect of inviting unwanted questions from the general public, who tend to think sitting next to an airline employee is license to tell him all that is wrong with his airline) I was greeted by a worse than expected mess, courtesy of one fracked up cat. Thankfully I had anticipated this and the furniture was draped in plastic sheets. So I spent most of Friday night cleaning up, then got tagged for work Saturday morning, then spent the rest of Saturday afternoon completing the clean up, because I had to be back at work Sunday morning at 4:15 to fly to New York. Why anyone would ever want to go there is beyond me. I can't think of a single redeeming thing about that place. Except for all the lovely agents and editors. And their families. And friends.
Anyway I'm finally home, with the rest of the day to unfurl my wrappings and catch up on TiVo. At some point I'll start writing again, but I also have my recurrent check ride looming on Thanksgiving day, so I should probably study. You gotta love being an airline pilot. It's the only job I know of where twice a year you're given the opportunity to lose your job.
Sorry for all the run-ons, but my weekend has been one big one.