The Mrs. and I are heading to Florida today. Her boss is letting us use her air miles for the trip (fun fact: when you fly American, coach and first class cost the same amount of air miles).

We both hate American Airlines with fiery passions, but first class is first class.

I used to fly first class as a child. When we went to Disneyland, my whole family sat in the front of the plane. I was mesmerized by the buffet of snacks (a table overflowing with the same treats that folks in coach get .2 oz. pouches of [if they're lucky]). When I was sent (by myself) to visit my dad’s folks in Florida, I flew first class. They gave me one of the largest ice cream sundaes I’ve ever seen.

Ever since? Coach.

The first plane ride I took after those two first class experiences was traumatizing. It was like anaphylactic culture shock. What do you mean I can’t have a sundae? I can have something to drink… in a couple of HOURS?

Sadly, today’s flight is only three hours long (knocks wood). So we’ll barely have enough time to enjoy the luxury of first class. Last night, we starting ordering around phantom stewards/stewardesses (“You two! Fight each other!” “Go make me some bacon. I don’t care if there is none, I’m in first class! Figure it out, jerk!”).

I apologize for the lack of scribblings of late. Such is life. If I can find a New York Post in Florida, I’ll try and write dispatches from the beach. Heck, even if I can’t find the paper I might anyway.

Have a lovely week, dear readers.