That charming woman in the photo is Harriet Quimby. In a minute, I'll get around to why I'm all of a sudden interested in women aviators.Starr Ann and Jodie are in heat again. Lucky disgusting things. In about two days I expect they'll crawl out of Jodie's room and come over here looking for food. Of course, the requisite chocolate cake and Mexican beer will be on hand.
Yesterday afternoon, soon as Starr Ann left for Jodie's, I hightailed it over to the small general aviation airport not far from here. Starr Ann's birthday is at the end of October, and I had an inspired gift idea - an airplane ride for her, Jodie, and me. It's perfect!
But here's the thing. When I got there, the airport's office was empty. Nobody home. I was just about ready to venture out to the hangar and see if I could find a mechanic or somebody, when this little blue airplane, robin's egg blue, comes rolling up, right on the grass, and shuts down outside. Real cute plane.
A couple of seconds after the propeller calmed down, out steps what I have to say is the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen up close. You could have told me I was watching an old Natalie Wood movie and I'd have believed you. I had a few seconds to admire her as she leaned against that robin's egg background, which did nothing to hurt the effect of her dark brown eyes and shiny brown hair, to write something in her notebook. I really hoped she'd walk through the office on her way to wherever she was going next.
She did! When she saw me there at the empty counter, she tossed her pad onto a shelf and asked what she could do for me.
That was a cue if I ever heard one, but my mojo was totally not working. This never happens, but I was entirely cut off from my supply of catchy lines. Nothing. Went through the whole transaction of arranging Starr Ann's flight without one suggestive remark, one significant look. I was visited by an attack of clumsiness, though. Dropped the pen she gave me, twice. And I know she saw my hand hover over the space for writing my address. I was blank. Where the FUCK do I live? Then, a miracle occurred, and I remembered.
Did I get her name? No. Check for a ring? No. Make one single memorable impression? Yes. She surely saw me as a chronic mumbler with the motor skills of a two-year-old.
All the way home I kept telling Trickster it was no big deal. Probably never see her again. She's more than likely straight. No big deal. I'm cool.
So, I switched my thoughts over to the purpose of going to the airport in the first place. Starr Ann has talked for ages about flying in a small plane, and I know she's going to love sharing that with Jodie and me.
The other great part about this present, the genius factor, is that Starr Ann has zero chance of finding it before the big day. That girl tears this place apart every time I have a present hidden and she usually finds it. Not this time!
Guess I'll go clean stalls, mow the pasture, maybe clean out the barn and vacuum the floors here in the house. Who am I kidding? I'm going to sit here in this stupor, dying to spend a couple of days with that airport girl working up the need for chocolate cake and Mexican beer.
