Flying Without a Net

Warning: This post has not been edited for content or grammar.  Mrs. Fussy is off at some conference in Arizona, and I have been left to my own devices.  Young Master Fussy is off gallivanting around Boston with his grandparents.  Little Miss Fussy has a tummy full of Chipotle and is peacefully fitfully sleeping it off.

Which means, I can do whatever I want.
But I’m not.  I’m going to play it safe.

One of the things Mrs. Fussy does for me, every day, besides making sure all of the commas are in the right place, and that I don’t have run-on sentences (like this one), is to make sure that my tone stays within a reasonable range.  And it’s a good thing too, because sometimes I just get a bit carried away.  What can I say?  I’m a passionate man.

So instead of going off the rails on some small matter that I find to be particularly galling, and which most likely nobody else has even noticed, I’m going to do something else.  I’m going to set up the week to come.

Generally I don’t write posts like this that aren’t about food at all.  I guess there is a first time for everything.

I am going to be joining Mrs. Fussy in Arizona.  I’ll be flying out of Albany International Airport shortly.  And as far as I am concerned this is going to be my desert writer’s retreat.  I hope to write a ton while I’m there, and I hope to eat some tasty things too.

With any luck, I’ll get to the Albany airport early enough to scope out the new wine bar.  I am very curious.  But who knows if it is even open before noon.  I am not above the morning glass of wine, especially in the interest of science.  Although I do have some concerns about wine by the glass.

Then I’m off to Detroit.  I pray that my flight gets in early and that I have time to grab a Michigan.  Although in Michigan they call them Coney’s.  Even though in Coney they don’t have the same meat sauce.  We’ve got the meat sauce here in the Capital Region, but we make them much much smaller, and don’t call them Michigan’s or Coney’s. How’s that for a cluster*uck.

If I can wolf down the hot dog and make it to the gate in time, I’ll catch the next flight to Phoenix.  Officially, I cannot think of Phoenix without thinking about Steven Wright and this bit:

I got into an elevator at work and this man followed in after me. I pushed “1” and he just stood there. I said, “Hi, where you going?” He said, “Phoenix.” So I pushed Phoenix. A few seconds later the doors opened, two tumbleweeds blew in. We were in downtown Phoenix. I looked at him and said, “You know, you’re the kind of guy I want to hang around with.”

When the doors open in Phoenix, tumbleweeds or not, I’ll have completed over seven hours of travel with Little Miss Fussy, more if you count the ride to the airport and the wait until takeoff, all without the support of a second parental unit.  Oh, or without the support of a second airplane seat.  She’ll be flying on my lap.  And right now, I’m booked for the middle seat.

I’m not sure what kind of cocktails they make in Phoenix.  But when I get there, I’ll let you know.

That said, Phoenix is apparently three time zones over, so my regularly schedule posts will likely appear to be late for those of you who are reading this in Albany.  On the other hand, those who read this in California might want to consider checking in before work.

I’m just hoping:
a) My computer doesn’t melt in the desert sun.
b) The hotel has a reasonably good internet connection.
c) Mrs. Fussy will be able to take a few minutes to fix my commas.

There are a few other food related hopes.  I’m hoping to get a decent cappuccino.  I’m hoping to get some reasonably good Mexican food.  I’ve heard about a Hawaiian joint that people seem to enjoy.

Hopefully the heat won’t completely sap my appetite.  We’ll just have to wait and see.