I think this flight attendant seriously needs to rethink his profession if he ever plans on smiling, laughing or partaking in any other enjoyable activity again.  The distain with which he throws the packet of exactly 12.5 pretzels onto my tray makes me incredibly envious of the passengers on the other side of the plane who are greeted by the gracious smile of white-haired, somewhat plump Kathy-who loosely resembles my childhood friend’s granny.  

The fact that I actually know Kathy’s name should give you some clue as to her hospitality, which pales in comparison to the guy on my side of the plane.  I have no idea what his name is, no introduction, so he officially gets the unfortunate nickname Mr. Happy-Not-So-Much. 

Right now Mr. Happy-Not-So-Much is having a rather loud conversation with dear, sweet Kathy in which he asks, “What the hell is an Arnold Palmer?”  An elderly gentleman across the isle from me made the mistake of asking for this drink when the cart rolled by, which sent Mr. Happy-Not-So-Much off into frenzy.  “What is that?  I don’t know what that is.  What else is it called?  Where’s Kathy?”  He searches the cabin to find her passing out extra bags of pretzels to passengers.  I want more pretzels!  

Maybe if I tell Mr. Happy-Not-So-Much that an Arnold Palmer is a combination of iced tea and lemonade, I’ll get on his good side. 

I try it.  No such luck. 

“We don’t have lemonade,” he snaps at the poor man, as if he asked for an A&W root beer float with vanilla bean ice cream, which I bet Kathy could whip up for him with a smile.  

You know, on second thought, 12.5 pretzels are awfully filling.