Hell of a Guy

Feeling Like A Working Stiff…


Today I am traveling to Orange Beach, Alabama to cover a conference for my former company.  It’s a “consulting” gig I have previously debunked as nothing more than a part time job that we older retired folks like to label as consulting because it sounds a thousand times better.  The bottom line of this is simply that I get paid for doing this and it allows me to continue to purchase massive amounts of my favorite brewed beverages.

As this very moment I am holed up at the far end of the Orlando airport waiting to board my connection to Pensacola, Florida.  The connection is delayed so I get to hang out here for another two hours, three totaled.  I suppose I don’t mind the wait, but it does throw off my consumption plans by couple of hours (the conference doesn’t start until tomorrow morning).  As it stands, I get to rent a car once we arrive in Pensacola and drive for 30 or 40 miles to my final destination, the Perdido Resort, where I will get to spend three glorious nights all by myself.

The “myself” point is the troublesome part.  I have become so used to being near The Nancy 24/7, this alone thing bothers the hell out of me.  I have, to come to the point, become a homebody, a momma’s boy of sorts.  When I leave The Farm, in almost an instant I long to be back there.  I miss it.  I am now a farm boy.  There is just something magical about that old house sitting a half-mile off the paved road in the middle of an old 120-acre farm.  If West Virginia is “Almost Heaven” then The Farm must surely be Cloud 9.  Perhaps I should add The Nancy is my angel, just in case she reads this.

I will muddle through the next three days and serve as eye candy for the masses.  After all, that is what consulting is all about.  Now all I need is a plane to get on and all will be cool.

And that is all I have to say about that…

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