Cheers & Jeers: Post-Traveling Edition

CHEERS:

• None of my flights were delayed, canceled, or plummeted from the sky at 10,000 feet.
• Southwest Airline’s open seating policy, which made it possible for me to score window seats on all four flights, only one of which was next to a dirty, dirty Airplane Flatulator.
• Spending the weekend drinking lots of wine, eating fried chicken and Indian food, and laughing my fool head off with my dear friend Bird.
• My weak-ass tolerance, which made it possible for me to get nice and drunk for less than ten dollars.
• My luggage, which was not lost despite my doomsday predictions to the contrary. Southwest Airlines, I salute you.

JEERS:

• The Airplane Flatulator (we were almost on the GROUND! You couldn’t wait ten more minutes?!?).
• The effect that drinking lots of wine and eating fried chicken & Indian food had on my digestive system, which was not unlike the effect that a lit match has on a gasoline-soaked recliner.
• My weak-ass tolerance, which – after only one glass of wine – made me feel as though it was entirely appropriate to have very loud PUBLIC conversations about Things I Should Always Keep To Myself.
• My obscenely clammy and sweaty nervous-airplane-hands, which all but ruined the cover of my Marie Claire with their ridiculous amounts of condensation. I am now unsure if the issue offers 300 or 301 new ways to please my man.
• The $16 bottle of conditioner that ejaculated itself all over the inside of my suitcase. My clothes now have extraordinary bounce and silky-softness; my bottle of conditioner is now embarrassed that it did not have more control.

Sorry, baby…I swear that doesn’t usually happen.

Weekend Getaway: When the Neuroses Come Out and Play

This weekend I have the distinct pleasure of leaving the cold, dreary Pennsylvania landscape to visit my friend Bird in the cold, dreary Kentucky landscape. Seeing as how I love both Bird and My Old Kentucky Home [which was really only my home for 4 years of college, but still - home nonetheless], I don’t mind that I’m not escaping to any sort of warm, tropical climate that will heal my disgusting, cracked, Crypt-Keeper dry hands.

“Has anyone seen my Lubriderm? AAAHAHHAAHHAHAAHAAHHHAHAAHAHAHA!“

In fact, the only thing I do mind is the fact that I have to fly. And the connection in Midway. And the possibility of lost luggage. And the germ carnival of the airport. And the danger of my shampoo leaking all over my clothes. And the inevitable delays. And the opportunity for forgetting a wide array of things I cannot live without back at home. And – while I’m at it – I might as well worry about my cat dying and the state of the economy. You know, for good measure.

In short, I am a delightful traveler.

I never used to be this way. My parents took us cross-country for vacation every year, beginning when I was a mere 6 years old, and I loved it. In fact, the experience of the airport and the airplane used to be one of my very favorite parts of the trip. I still have a huge collection of plastic airplane wings, and I’ve already shared with you my affinity for a certain odd Halloween costume. Yes, I was quite the little traveler in those days, imagining what it would be like when I was finally a grown-up and could travel even MORE, and spend even MORE time on MORE airplanes and in MORE airports until I eventually subsisted only on honey-roasted peanuts & ginger ale, wearing a suit fashioned from airplane blankets & in-flight magazines and washing my hair in the tiny lavatory sink with hotel-sized bottles of Prell.

I’ve seen the future, and it’s go-go-boot-clad and GLORIOUS.

Alas, that was before I had the chance to mature into the majestic, fantastic, gigantic pain-in-the-ass worrier that I am. These days, traveling is pretty much porn for my over-anxious brain, and I have to make a constant effort not to cop-out and drive everywhere.

Because driving is just SO much safer, you know.

I think I do a pretty good job of forcing myself to fly despite the colon-spasms and shallow breathing it causes me. I’ve gone on two trips overseas, both of which required insanely long flights, and I’ve taken steps to lessen my flight-related anxiety. These steps include – but are not limited to – meditation, exposure therapy, research, visualization, Dramamine, and gin.

Two-hour delay, six-hour delay – who gives a shit?

Also, I’ve realized that, in general, most of my problems stem from the anticipation of the event rather than the event itself. Like Carly Simon, anticipation is making me wait, but is also making me entirely unsure of what my bowels are about to do next. And we can’t have that, now can we? Especially if my luggage gets lost and I don’t have a change of pants.

But the good thing about being an “anticipation” worrier is that once the event is underway and the flight takes off, I’m totally fine. I can listen to my iPod, read my trashy magazine and enjoy a $4 mini-bottle of chardonnay that tastes like feet.

Oh, until we hit turbulence or the plane turns too steeply. Then I’ll grab the armrest and squeeze until my clammy hand has left condensation on the metal. This was especially charming the one time I went to grab the armrest and accidentally grabbed the wrist of the woman sitting next to me, who was asleep.

Not for long, she wasn’t.

But once we land and I get off the plane, I realize how awesome it is to fly, how incredible it is that I can travel hundreds of miles in mere hours, and DEAR SWEET JESUS, HOW I WILL HONOR EVERY SINGLE PROMISE I MADE TO YOU AS WE WERE TAKING OFF.

As long as it doesn’t interfere with my current lifestyle, of course.

Because – clammy hands and wile bowels aside – it would be a real shame if I let my anxieties prevent me from traveling and all the wonderful experiences that can bring. I cannot imagine what it would be like to never know the horrific stench of an in-flight fart, or to never battle a drug-resistant head cold contracted from a surly flight attendant named Bruce. A world without 9-hour flights spent watching Amanda Bynes movies is a world without happiness, of that I can be sure.

The hallmark of a life well-lived.

 

Small Talk

I went to a baby shower this weekend where I was the only woman of child-bearing age who was not either pregnant or already a mother. I’ve never really noticed being in that situation before. I mean, Christ, I’m only 31 (yes, only) and I am still getting over the convenience and pleasure of being able to purchase my own alcohol.

“Sounds like a sexy hamburger!”

Of course, given the circumstances, I received more than my fair share of interrogation concerning the state of my womb. I had to cut my cross-examiners some slack, though, considering we were surrounded by towering stacks of receiving blankets and crepe cut-outs of baby carriages hovering inches above our heads. And did I mention the gaggle of screaming children running around? Parenthood was pretty much the unavoidable topic of the day, no matter how hard I wanted to turn the conversation to the delicious pepper-jack cheese cubes I was inhaling with my pink-colored punch.

All in all, though, the shower was fun. I love watching people open gifts, and the guest of honor got all kinds of fun little things that will soon be coated in a fine film of spit-up. Plus, the little kids that were running around were really cute – especially one particularly outgoing little girl who insisted on helping out with the games & gift-opening, and also offered a baby name suggestion to the mother-to-be (“Flower.”). At one point, she came over to me and struck up a conversation about unicorns or Hello Kitty or whatever little girls talk about, and this is where the afternoon went from “vaguely uncomfortable” to “I wonder how fast I could locate and imbibe a bucket of distilled spirits?”

My guess: not fast enough.

Oh, it’s not like I did something awful, like telling her that she was probably adopted or asking her to callate su grande yapper - I’m just not very good when it comes to talking to kids. Or keeping them entertained. Or interacting with them whatsoever.

…said the girl trying to get pregnant. Jesus Christ.

I don’t know why it’s such a struggle for me. I babysat endlessly between the ages of 14 and 20, although I have to admit that most of my babysitting techniques involved plopping the kid in front of Nick Jr. while I finished my Judy Blume novel and made myself a snack. (Oh, MAN, the people I babysat for always had the best snacks: rice krispie treats, cookies, popsicles, townhouse crackers with cheese & pepperoni slices – and the Coke flowed like water, my friends, which was a big deal for me, since my mother never bought Coke unless we were having company. But anyway.) I think most of my problem stems from the fact that I was the youngest kid in my immediate family and never spent any real time around cousins who were any more than a couple years younger than me. Also, I was painfully shy until at least age 10, and when I see a shy kid acting all uncomfortable around me, I immediately regress right back into that shy version of myself, and I have no idea what to say. Even more terrifying for me are the really outgoing and borderline-bossy types, because they always pushed me around as a kid, and they still make me uneasy to this day.

So, basically, shy or outgoing – they all make me feel weird, and once I exhaust the normal topics of “what’s your name/how old are you/what grade are you in?” I’m totally dry. Come back and talk to me in ten years when I can at least ask you about movies other than “Barbie of Swan Lake.”

God, if she wins the Oscar I hope she doesn’t forget to thank Ken! We all know how that ended up for Hilary Swank…

I’ve always envied those people who just have a way with kids – not so much the preschool-teacher types who baby-talk in booming voices with exaggerated gestures, nearly having an aneurysm while over-emoting about “WOW! Look at Andrew drinking his juice box like a BIG BOY! Are you a BIG BOY, Andrew? Look at your sweater with the BIG BOY dinosaur on it!” but the people who can just talk to a kid like a normal fucking person, but also on a level that the kid can understand. I’m not suggesting that I’d like to be able to casually offer a 5-year-old a Miller Lite to calm her crying when she skins her knee, I’m just saying I’d like to be able to just TALK to a kid without feeling uncomfortable and without shouting about LOOK! MADISON WENT PEE-PEE ALL BY HERSELF, EVERYONE! I FEEL A SONG COMING ON!

The day I start sounding like this asshole, just push me down the stairs.

So, I have to ask: is it normal for a full-grown woman who wants to have a kid in the near future to be so damn weird around them? Is it just because I haven’t spent a lot of time around people whose bed-wetting is in no way alcohol-related? Does this mean I will have nothing to say to my own kid because I will already KNOW its name/age/grade? Or, as I suspect, will I eventually turn into the woman I always feel sorry for in public bathrooms, who is usually spewing a running commentary of “OK, NOW, SIT ON THE POTTY, SWEETHEART – THAT’S RIGHT! LIKE A BIG GIRL! NO, DON’T MOVE, NOT YET…NOW WIPE LIKE MOMMY SHOWED YOU, OK? GOOD! NOW STAND OVER HERE BECAUSE MOMMY HAS TO USE THE POTTY…” while I stand, frozen, two stalls down – waiting for the inevitable exclamation of “Mommy’s pooping!” or something equally jarring in the small (but surprisingly loud) voice of a 3 year old girl?

I can’t argue with that.

I’m pretty sure I know the answer to my own question. I’m pretty sure that – if I have a kid – I can get used to peppering my conversations with “RAY! You take that diaper off your head, you put it back onto your sister!”, and I’m also pretty sure (or at least hoping) that the conversation will come a little more naturally when I’m dealing with my own kid. Assuming (as I do) that I will give birth to an Alex P. Keaton (that is, a child who goes against every belief I hold near and dear), I’m sure I’ll spend the better part of 18 years yammering on to the poor kid about how he is breaking his mother’s heart every time he watches Fox News.

You march right back upstairs and take that sweater vest off before your father gets home!

Otherwise, the kid’s childhood will have all the ease of The Chris Farley Show, and we can’t have that.

“‘Member that one time? When you were born? And…and…you were all naked and stuff? That was AWESOME!”

 

How To Guarantee That Your Email Is Going Straight To My Deleted Items Folder

Forward me a lame email containing some stupid Chicken-Soup-for-the-Soul story that ends in this:

How very subtle.

Cheers & Jeers: Monday Edition

With the “Jeers” first, because I’m like Garfield with my Monday-hatin’ up in here.

JEERS:

• The intermittent nausea I’m experiencing. Enhanced by the fact that – if need be – I’m pretty sure I would not make it to the bathroom in time. Sorry in advance, Really Cool Janitor Dude Who Empties My Trash!
• The Steelers. Sigh.
• Me, with my fucking annoying-ass habit of only bringing up ONE tape dispenser refill at a time from the supply cabinet two floors down, my [annoying-ass] logic being that it’s good for me to get off my ass and walk up and down the stairs for a tape refill whenever I need one, but in reality I just get PISSED OFF that I have to STOP WHAT I’M DOING and WALK UP AND DOWN STAIRS. I hate you, Me.
• Our poor little car that needs two new tires. At the expense of poor little us.
• Work. Get off my ass, work! I do not feel like doing you today.

CHEERS:

• The totally awesome Shepherd’s Pie leftovers (recipe from the lovely, talented, real-life British lady Holly) that await me for dinner tonight. Take note, nausea: I will be eating those leftovers with or without you.
• Aforementioned Really Cool Janitor Dude, who always chats with me if I am [furious because I am] at the office late. I promise I will not puke in my trash can, my friend. I just can’t do you like that.
• It’s really warm out today & my dry, cracked, gross, winter Tales-From-The-Crypt zombie hands have taken a hiatus. I tip my hat to you, Global Warming.
• New tires means that the car will no longer do that incessant shimmying thing that makes me feel like I’m in a goddamn Wang Chung video.
• HoST. Get on my ass, HoST! I totally feel like doing you today.

Fuck you, Nermal. Now get me a Lasagna.

It’s Not You-terus, It’s Me-terus

Last Friday night, HoST & I saw the movie “Juno.” We both loved it, despite the fact that our cold, black, hardened hearts were forced to feel feelings, which may have resulted in both of us crying at the end and the people sitting behind us seeing me use HoST’s scarf as a makeshift Kleenex (I ran out of the ones I usually keep in my purse; my mother would be scandalized). Anyhoo, the movie was great. Go see it. Lots of funny stuff, lots of great acting, lots of heartstrings pulled. One of my favorite scenes was when the pregnant 16-year-old Juno goes to meet with the couple she’s chosen to adopt her baby. Highly uncomfortable awkwardness abounds, which (unless it is happening to me) is one of the most hilarious things on Earth. At one point, Jennifer Garner (who plays the desperately baby-hungry woman Juno has chosen to be the baby’s adoptive mother – a woman who would clearly saw off her arm with a cocktail sword to have a chance to give birth to her own baby) marvels at the miracle of pregnancy, what with the bodily changes and what have you, and Juno comes back with, “You’re lucky it’s not you.”

Ouch.

That’s right up there with complaining to a paraplegic that your dogs are really barking from that 5k you just completed.

See, in the movie, that line is funny because it’s awkward, and it’s awkward because it’s tactless, and it’s tactless because there are some things that YOU JUST DON’T SAY. Things including (but not limited to):

• Aren’t you a little old to still be single?
• Have you gained weight? [Doctors, however, can say this whenever they feel like it]
• When are you two gonna have some kids?

I will give you one guess as to which one of those idiotic things someone said to me recently. Well, first I will tell you that I am not single, and I have not gained [any noticeable] weight, and THEN I will give you one guess as to which one of those idiotic things someone said to me recently.

Yeah.

And who took it upon themselves to ask me about the state of my uterus? Let’s do another multiple-choice, shall we?

• My uterus [in which case the inquiry was totally justified]
• My vagina [also totally justified, given proximity to uterus and role in childbirth]
• Some dude we see once a year whose father knows my in-laws and who is in no way related to me or HoST

Hint: It was not us!

Seriously, you guys – not even my MOM has asked me about that shit, and on the list of Most Entitled to Inquire About the Existence of Plans to Procreate, she’s pretty near the top. HoST and I have only been asked that question one other time: by another complete stranger who chatted us up for a whole 15 minutes before finding it totally appropriate to ask whether or not we were fucking without birth control these days.

What is it with these otherwise well-mannered people feeling completely comfortable with shoehorning their fat asses into our reproductive bidness? Are they just blurting that shit out before their minds wander to the possibility that maybe we can’t have kids or aren’t yet ready for kids or don’t want to have kids? Do they not realize that I have no desire to share with them my personal take on pushing small people out of my genitals?

Because really, I have not yet been able to formulate an answer to that [totally intrusive] question that didn’t include a pained smile, lots of stuttering, and me becoming quiet with inner rage while poor HoST has to come up with something to satisfy Sherlock-fucking-Holmes over there.

“Her womb is suspiciously empty, my dear Watson.”

The first time we were asked that question, we weren’t anywhere near ready to have kids. In fact, at the time, I wasn’t sure I’d ever want kids, which made it extra challenging to try to answer that gem without sounding like a total asshole – especially considering that the guy who asked had an entire brood of kids swarming behind him. But since he had the balls to ask, he should have the balls to take my totally frank, honest answer, right? I mean, seeing how he’s so very comfortable talking about my ladybusiness and all.

This is how it went:

HIM: So, when are you two gonna have some kids?

ME: …

HoST: Uh, well…I don’t know…maybe sometime, but maybe not right now. Ha ha. Yeah. Kids are great.

This is how it should have gone:

HIM: So, when are you two gonna have some kids?

ME: Maybe never. I’m not really interested in kids right now, so all roads south of the border are strictly one-way, if you catch my drift. Plus, your kids are in that perpetual runny nose/shrieking banshee stage right now, and parenting has never looked less attractive.

Of course, now we are ready to have kids, but as of yet there is still no Fruit in my Roll-up, if you will. So when I was asked the dreaded question YET AGAIN the other evening, this is how it went:

HIM: So, when are you two gonna have some kids?

ME: …

HoST: Uh, well…I don’t know…probably soon. Ha ha. Yeah. Kids are great.

This is how it should have gone:

HIM: So, when are you two gonna have some kids?

ME: You know – darndest thing – we’ve been screwing like damn rabbits, but I’m emptier than a nun down there. We’ll keep you posted, though. K thx bye!

You think then he might have gotten the message? Nah, probably not. Most likely, he would have gone on to ask if my hair color was natural and then pointed out that zit on my chin.

So that’s how you take a blog entry from newly-released movies to the state of your reproductive organs in about three paragraphs flat. Granted, the line from the movie was more about Juno inadvertently putting her foot in it than it was about overstepping her boundaries and asking about shit that was none of her damn business, but still. Cut me some slack. I’m still a little dazed that Huckabee got 34% of the vote last night.

Douche.