Yesterday Char-lita and Big Jim called and asked if Snowflake and I would drop them off at the local airport. They came bombing into the office in typical Northern Midwestern Gambling Junket Finery: my dad wearing his red University of Wisconsin t-shirt, khaki elastic waist shorts(thank goodness he didn't tuck his shirt in which would have shown off his epiliptical/cigar/bomber hardroll shaped physique), buff colored Florsheim loafers and white socks that rested just at his shins.
My mother had on black stone-washed and cuffed crop jeans and a black tank top. What Angelica Huston is to a tall cool drink of water, my mother is to a kick-ass maragarita on the rocks. She had her strawberry blondish hair pulled up on top of her head and then ponytailed with an elastic at the nape of her neck. She had on a black leather belt with gold grommets that matched a cool black gold studded purse. Jersey chic.
They were headed to Atlantic City, maybe New York for a few days. They were chomping at the bit to get going so off we went, Char-lita as my co-pilot. They checked in and thought they'd get a bite at "Wings" the airport restaurant. Big Jim is a man who likes a good steak so I was shocked when they both ordered filets and shrimp. Snowflake and I would share a fruit plate.
Fifteen minutes later, you could smell the seashore/someone's rotting crotch before the aroma parked permanently on the tabletop. Three orangish quarter sized shriveled crustaceans arrived alongside a grizzeled grey chunk of meat. The fruit plate consisted of red and green grapes, vintage January 2007, two strawberries, a third of a banana and a raunchy piece of cantaloupe. A strange but sweet cloudy specimen-like yellow sauce the consistency of pancake syrup accompanied the melange.
As we said our goodbyes amongst the barely touched plates, I wondered what adventures lay ahead for the jetsetters and for Snowflake and myself as we went our separate ways, hungry.