The happiest place on earth is not an airplane bathroom

I’m on a plaaaaaaane!

Nope. Not nearly the same ring to it as “I’m on a boat”. Nevertheless, that is where I am as I write this. It’s been about 7 years since I last flew. Mike and I are flying to Orlando for a workcation. He has a tech conference for work that requires him to sit through David Blaine. Bwahahahahaha! I, meanwhile, will get to sleep in. Get a massage. Wander around aimlessly. Judge the horrible people at the resort’s beach.* Blog poolside with a drink from the poolside bar. Decide I’d rather blog on my balcony with a drink from the poolside bar.*
Either the planes have gotten a bit smaller or I’ve gotten way bigger. I think the answer to both is “yes”. My seatbelt buckle is comfortably located beneath my left wrist. My trip to the lav was harrowing. I was lured into a false sense of serenity by the futuristic, neon blue light. (I wouldn’t last a fucking minute as a bug. BSZZZZZZT!!!!!! ) Once I trapped myself inside, the blue light disappeared and I saw the mile high toilet for what it really was: A TOILET FOR ANTS! (/Zoolander) Believe me, I know I’m not a small girl, but damn! I sat myself down, and that’s when it happened. Turbulence. Apparently I am not the sort to pee myself while I slightly freak out. I froze like a deer and stared at the various stick figure signs. After a few seconds, I was able to summon the courage to pee while bouncing like a lottery ball. Once finished, I flushed the toilet. Like ya do. There was a delay and then WHOOOOSHROOOOOOAAAAAAARSSSSSSUUUUUUUUUUUWAAAAAAAAH

The gremlin that lives on the wing of the plane came up through the toilet, reached its scraggly claws through my ears, grabbed onto the auditory processing centers of my brain, bungee jumped back out of my ears, cut the cord and evil-squeaked, heHEE as he flushed himself back down the toilet. I stood in shock, looking at myself in the mirror, and then exited. And there was that fucking blue light again.

The moral of the story is:
Don’t drink before your flight to relax your nerves. You will need to pee.

*So I may have added on to this post the next day because I was too traumatized by my flight.

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My best thinking

I never used Twitter before I began blogging. It was a trend I didn’t see the point in. Besides, Mike always told me what Wil and Anne Wheaton tweeted anyway. But Mike peer pressured me into getting on Twitter as a means to shamelessly promote my blog.

Side note: I had a fantastic idea when I thought about peer pressure. Why are schools not using The Borg episodes of Star Trek as a means to teach about peer pressure? When you think about it, it’s pretty perfect.
“They don’t really care about you as an individual. They just want to assimilate you into their Abercrombie cologne-hazed collective conscience. …..Don’t give in to peer pressure!”

Anyway, as I was reading my Twitter feed the other night, I read a series of drunk tweets from one of my favorite bloggers, Jenny Lawson: The Bloggess. As usual, she did not disappoint and had me laughing hysterically while Mike shook his head at me. Because he’s basically dead inside. It’s the only logical explanation. Or maybe his funny was just broken.

Today, though, it made me sad. Because of the assortment of medications I’m on for my fibromyalgia, (I’m definitely going to need a medicine pantry whenever we buy our next house) I’m no longer able to drink. My ability to drunk tweet has been stolen from me.
Of course, there are other things fibro has taken from me: the ability to lose weight; the ability to not gain weight; restful sleep; my energy; my ability to be a better parent; my mental acuity; the choice of whether or not to ever have another child.
But chief among these is clearly the ability to drunk tweet. I even thought up a poem about how sad it is while I was in the shower.

How many tweets could a girl drunk tweet,
If tweeting girl could drunk tweet?

….I really do my best thinking in the shower.

Victory, like pumpkin pie, is sweet

My friend, Trish, has a problem. She wants to make pumpkin pie. But her husband, Nick, has declared it too early for pumpkin pie and will not have anything to do with it right now. This would leave Trish and their daughter to eat all the pie, which is not something she wants to do. So we conversed on Facebook on making small pies to make making and eating pie more manageable. Several hours later, Nick decided to weigh in. Presented, without comment…

Nick: Pumpkin pie, pumpkin pie, everybody loves some pumpkin pie!

Nick: Oh, an NO PUMPKIN PIE GREENLIGHT! I am the man. I wear the pants! THE PANTS!

Nick: Oh wait….Trish has pants on too

Trish: *eyebrow raise* I hope those pants of yours will keep you warm on the couch tonight, Man.

Nick: My dear woman. I fear not the couch! It is comfortable and brown.

Trish: Just like the pumpkin pie that I’ll be making tomorrow.

Trish: *gauntlet thrown*

Nick: *Hmmmmm…..this reminds me of the battle of Lutzen, where the Russians and Prussians made contact with he French, Napoleon lured them in by exposing Ney’s corps so that he could smash into their flank with the Imperial Guard. That is a dork’s way of saying….It’s a trap! Best to play it safe, man with pants*

Nick: Pumpkin pie away!

Trish: That’s probably the most entertaining way I’ve heard you say “yes, dear” in quite some time.

Nick: Never fight a land war in Asia, and never try to out snark a Slytherin.

Nick blogs over at Miscellaneous Marickovich