Michelle Perin’s Blog

Let me start out by correcting my last blog. I was informed that I incorrectly titled the event involving Gross Old Guy and since I believe my readers need the full impact of the scene (or so I was led to believe by my date of the evening) I want to correct myself. The event should have been titled:

80’s Big Hair Moment of the Night

I’m sitting in my office with the sun shining through the window. I’ve written my to-do list and have a few things, including setting up some interviews that I need to get done. I have a relatively light in-box and only a few tasks that have urgency today. I’ve checked my emails and my phone message isn’t lit. I do have an annoying fly buzzing around me and it’s driving me crazy. None of this is unusual. A typical day in my life. What’s not typical?

I smell like campfire and my feet are filthy.

Why? I’m glad you asked. A group of my very best friends are camping at Cottage Grove Lake for the weekend. I love these people. We are all members of AA and I don’t think I’ve ever met more loving, kind, generous and good hearted people. We have all stood on the edge of hell staring down into the depths fire lapping our faces. We’ve felt the scorching heat blistering our skin. We stood alone, having alienated most of the people that loved us, loathing ourselves and wishing the fire would just consume us and put us out of our misery. We look at each other and acknowledge the survival that comes with having learned to surrender, the peace of crawling to the feet of our Higher Power and the joy of giving and receiving from others.

Our camping adventure started last night after the Thursday Night meeting where my sponsor and a glorious woman celebrated 16 years of sobriety. When she told her experience, strength and hope her voice caught in her throat. Tears formed in her eyes. Love exuded from her. I wanted to weep with her. It was beautiful. When the meeting was over, I headed home collected the boys, our camping gear and Ursula the War Wagon. We got to the campsite around 930pm. I began setting up my tent with Rick shining his light on me and reminding me that I didn’t need help (inside joke from Wikieup last year), Eric standing nearby wanting to assist me but not getting into my space (my opinion not based on any verifiable facts) and Marc being as helpful as a 15 y/o boy can be. (Please pull the pole through. Yes, that one. Pull. Actually pull it through. Marc, please pick up the pole. It won’t go through with your foot.) When the tent rose, I realized the pole was still broken (I had asked Marc to fix it weeks ago and he had just used the kit to do so {or so he said} that afternoon). We tried zip tying it but just when I put the tarp on, I heard, Crack! And, down it fell. Thank goodness, Rich had an extra pole. By this time, the call of Pammie’s KFC on the table was too much, so I ran off to get a plate having full intention of going back to putting up my tent when I didn’t feel I was going to starve to death. Alas, I did not have to. Rich and Eric took control and got the tent up. And, for once, I allowed myself to just let them. I didn’t need to go over and micromanage or do it all myself. I told myself, “It doesn’t matter. No one thinks you can’t take care of yourself because you are eating while they put the tent up.” As simple as it was, it was a growing moment for me.

We hung out around the campfire for a couple hours and Dean ran off to Rich’s site. He befriended Rich’s daughter and they were searching for frogs and just being playing. At bedtime, I crawled into my tent and closed my eyes. I had set my alarm for 5:15am (a whopping 5 hours away). As I tried to drift off to sleep wondering if I could hear the sound of Eric’s breathing in his tent right outside of mine…a baby started crying. The sound was of a very small child and it resonated through the campground. Nice, I thought. At first, my mind went to, “Why in the world would someone bring a child that young camping?” Then the frazzled mother in me replied, “Dude, mothers need to have fun too. Remember what it was like being stuck at home with a 5 year old and a newborn, all by yourself, with nothing but their cries and wants to keep you company? A nice evening by the lake would have been a God-send.” Instead of feeling irritated, I instead sent her prayers of peace and relaxation.

When my alarm went off this morning, I rolled over and turned it off. Then, I remembered I told Eric I would wake him up (read, kick his tent) in case his alarm didn’t go off. So, I rolled out of bed, gathered up my ditty bag and work clothes and stumbled out of the tent. I made a couple trips to the campfire chairs so I could put things down. The grass felt cool and awesome on my bare feet. Have I mentioned I hate wearing shoes? Well, I do. I think they’re superfluous. Just when I finished stumbling and thank goodness before I started mumbling to myself, I looked up. Eric was already up sitting at the picnic table. I immediately thought, “Good, one less thing I have to do this morning.” JK. It was actually more like the thought that runs through my head over and over like a scratched record ever since I met him, “Damn, he’s cute.” (This thought occurs even more so now that I can actually unabashedly stare at him, unlike before where I had to try desperately not to.)

I had a bit of time before I had to go to work, so I went to the lake shore and sat down. I oohed and aahed over the yellows and blues that streamed the sky. Birds nearby sounded like they were laughing and frogs or fish kept breaking the surface of the smooth water. The light splashing was soothing. I’ve always loved water. It calms me. I feel connected when I’m near it. I almost went for a swim this morning. I should have (this is frustrating for me because I’ve been trying not to hold back when I want to experience something. We’re not guaranteed another moment and how pompous of me to believe I can just wait until later. My Higher Power wants me to live right here right now. He’s not given me a time line for when my dash ends and I can’t live like I know how long I have). The sun began to rise over the hills and I just sat there with my knees pulled to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. This is what life is about. It’s about going camping even if you have to work the next day. It’s about taking chances even when you feel your past wounds aren’t healed. It’s about pulling up your sleeves and exposing your scars. It’s about loving who you are because God made you perfect and if you think less of that then you think less of God’s work.

I peeled myself away from the sunrise, so I could kick Marc out of the truck (where for some reason he thinks it is more fun to sleep than on a mattress in a tent. Whatever! Teenagers). Eric had gone home to clean up before he went to work, but he teased me by texting he had hot coffee and since it was on my in to work and because it seems no matter how often I see him I want to see him more (I know gross, huh?)but mostly because I just really needed more coffee than the stuff I had put in a mason jar from yesterday’s pot that I was drinking cold as I stumbled around the camp site, I went over. I’m glad I did because not only did I get a hot cup of coffee but I got to watch him ride his Triumph in front of me all the way from South Cottage Grove to the freeway. All I can say is, “Damn! Some guys just have IT.”

So, my point? I’m sitting at work, my feet are filthy and I smell like campfire.

**A disclaimer*** I wrote this after the fact. Not when I was supposed to be actually working…Hi, Julie***

Wow! What a weekend I had. I feel it will take me a decade to recover. Of course, some people will look at my adventures and think, “That’s incredible!” and others, “As if?! I could so do better than that!” All I have to say is, WHATEVER. (Can you tell what kind of mood I’m in this morning? My daily reflection actually talked about mood and embracing the swings and honoring the spectrum. Again, WHATEVER).

After work Friday, I went to the bank and then picked up a couple items of clothing at my favorite upscale shop, Goodwill. (Black jeans that go down past my ankles and a purple and black checked shirt with ruching-SCORE!). Then, I headed to my friend and co-worker, Terri’s house for a work-related bar-b-que (Read, the girls in the front office get together to eat and gossip). I couldn’t stay too long because I had a date. I won’t get into all the “fun” of dating at my age in this blog. Maybe I’ll actually go there in another. (Dear Readers, let me know if you’d like to hear all about that by leaving a comment). My new “friend” (I really hate labels) picked me up at 8 and took me to the country fair (If that sounds like a country song it’s because it is). I haven’t been to the fair in years (well a county fair, I went to the State fair last year to see Cinderella and Queensryche—They still rock. And the hair? Swoon.). We walked around and looked at the flower arrangements (I want to turn my bedroom into a tropical oasis. I wonder if I can get a couple parrots that don’t make any noise…or poop.) and the animals (instead of a rich girl with a Chihuahua in my purse, I could be a lower-middle class girl with one of those fuzzy headed/footed chickens in my bag. At least if I end up stranded on a desert island, I’ll have dinner.) Speaking of hating labels, Eric and I were walking around when a young woman approached us. “Is this your woman?” she asked Eric. Responding to his blank and seemingly uncomfortable expression, she elaborated, “Your wife? Your girlfriend? You know, your woman?” He stammered something about me being his date, and she stated she just wanted to complement me on my outfit (black shirt with glow in the dark bat over black swishy wide legged pants and black sequined flops. It was cute). I was flattered but the moment…awkward (we got over it). At the end of the evening, we rode the Ferris wheel (totally cliché especially on a third date). That in and of itself is a story all its own (I’m sorry Eric. I really do have a filter and maybe someday possibly I might learn to not be so brutally honest). Anyway, in line with my blog about my weekend, I stayed out until around 2-2:30am. (I did sleep until 10am).

Saturday was the big event of the weekend even though I didn’t know about it until Friday night. Apparently Creswell has a big music festival every year. Cresfest it’s called. Now that I’ve lived in town for over three years, I finally get to know about it. Yay, I’ve arrived. Must be like when my Yooper friend Dave was nice enough to correct my pronunciation of Mackinac (Michelle, it’s Mack-i-naaaaw). Why didn’t anyone say anything before (it had been a year or so since I’d moved to the Keweenaw). “Because you weren’t important enough to,” he replied. Snap. Well, in this year of the Lord, 2011, I not only found out about Cresfest, but was invited (and I got in for free with the photographer to the main act…so hah). Now let me tell you about this festival and how it really enhanced my life. I will break it down into categories and blog a bit at a time. I don’t want to overwhelm anyone.

80s Rockin’ Hair Moment

About a year and a half ago, I went to see Last Band Standing at the WOW Hall in Eugene. Now, I like the WOW Hall because it’s one of those small venues that plays great music and you’re all up close and personal with the stage and band (I don’t know about you, but it’s not good music unless I’m standing right in front of the speaker and I can feel it in my chest…One…Two…CLEAR!). I also like it because of teenage memories. My bad boy first love Eric/Jason took me there one night and…well that’s another story too. Anyway, about halfway through the show, I started watching this gentleman who was in his mid 50s rocking the most fabulous 80s hair. He was like the reincarnation of Don Johnson, George Michaels and Chuck Norris. (FABULOUS!). He had a rocking leather jacket on and blue jeans. He just screamed–”I am so stuck in the past!” That’s okay, I don’t have a problem with that (stop with the comments about my 85 Trans AM screaming by with Skid Row, Poison, White Lion or Slayer blaring….mmmmmhhhhhmmmm boys with long dark hair and eye liner…). What ruined this WOW Hall moment for him was that he was all skeezie. He stood behind the (younger) girls just watching and dancing all gross. Hence, his new nickname, Gross Old Guy. I laughed and laughed about the memory until I ran into him at the supermarket down from my house. Oh, No, Gross Old Guy lives in Creswell! Then, I saw his car…a bright red Corvette with the plate, “Rock Ya” OMG…seriously??? Then I saw his truck, “Rock Me” Too much! (I will add the disclaimer before I move on to talk about Cresfest…he actually works at the lumber yard by my house and helped me with wood one day. He was very nice.)

When I saw Gross Old Guy at Cresfest, I immediately started laughing (I can’t help it, I’ve been laughing like an idiot about everything lately. I’m going to have six-pack abs and laugh lines in no time). After the bands were playing a while, I looked over and saw him walking around the dance floor towards the back of the stage. Right before he walked out of sight, he did it…he blessed us with the most fabulous hair toss you’ve ever seen. It was superb. What layering. I must ask him where he gets his hair done.

Dear Readers, stay tuned for I Didn’t Do It guy.

One of my favorite classes in college was Architecture as Art. I love buildings. Actually let me quantify that, I love pretty buildings, ones with swirls and ledges and preferably dark, fairy tale creatures attached to them. Although I’ve spent the majority of my life on the young (age-wise) West Coast, I’ve had the privilege of traveling some. Nothing like going to Europe or Asia where the buildings are super-super old, but that will come in time. (Hopefully, I will continue to live under the mantra “Don’t wait until tomorrow,” like I did to go see Old Tucson. It burned to the ground before I got there. That sucks.) In 2005, after as a graduation gift to myself, I spent a month on the road traveling through the U.S. I started in Phoenix and headed southeast. I went up the East Coast heading up through Canada, dropped back down (almost wasn’t let back into the country. Hey, Mounties, I was two seconds from becoming your dispatcher. Love the hats. The pants…not so much) and stopped to visit my parents in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (I also had to pick up my other son who was 4 and my parents so graciously watched so me and my 9 y/o son could make this trip) and headed back south again.

So, back to architecture (there is a point to this tale; there always is, it’s just that sometimes I’m the only one who gets it). One of the stops on our 34 state, 9,200 mile drive-wherever-the heck-I-want-to-on-the-back-roads-of-this-great-country trip was Washington, DC. We camped over in West Virginia (everything is so close over there. It’s like people staked their claims and said, “Ooo, ooo, ooo, new state! Even though they were a stone’s throw from their neighbor’s plot. I figure by the time people got to Oregon, they were so tired they just threw down a blanket and when some government bureaucrat asked about boundaries, they barely lifted their head and said, “How bout that river there and that river there and them mountains, sound good?” Pffllmp, head back on pillow). Anyway, the buildings in DC were amazing. I spent more time starting up at the rooflines with my mouth gaping open then anywhere I’ve ever been. Buildings had swirls and marble and etchings and columns and pillars and…and…and…I was just so excited (ok, I’m not a normal girl; I get it). The apartment building next to the White House made me just want to move there, dress all in black (Victorian-style) and wait for my hot, Vampire dream-guy to show up at my window. And, the government buildings…to die for. If you’ve never seen the frieze on the Smithsonian Archives, you haven’t lived. If I could have rented a cherry picker for the day, I would have given tourists something to look at hovering for hours at the top of building touching each corner, groove and etching (I’ve very tactile and Yes, I must touch everything). I realized we don’t have nearly enough stone on the West Coast. We must do better.

After leaving Washington, we headed north and my day kept getting better (I’d like to say days but we already discussed the whole cross the street, cross the state thing) and we ended up in New Haven, Connecticut, Home of Yale University. It’s a good thing I went to Arizona State University because I would never have gotten any studying done at Yale. I would have just walked around with my head up until I fell in a man-hole. The spires, buttresses and rose windows had me drooling. Even now, looking back at my pictures, I want to put my hands on everything. (You should try it). The buildings were covered in wrought iron and flying lions and (gasp, my most favorite!!!) Gargoyles. When I build my place here in Oregon, I’m going to have at least one, if not two (you don’t want them to get lonely; they can get in so much trouble) gargoyles on my house (I don’t care if it’s going to be a log cabin in the woods. I’m having the gargoyles!). Once Marc peeled me away from Yale, (read, “MOM! Can we stop looking at the stupid buildings, PLEASE!), we headed to Massachusetts. I’ll tell you about my love affair with Plymouth Rock in another post.

So, this post does have a point other than my reminiscent drooling over hundred-year old buildings on the other side of the country. It has to do with Da Book (everything lately does; when I feel restless, I pull it out and find something to do). The “do” was, “Distinguish the difference between Ionic, Corinthian, and Doric.” I knew these terms from class and it got me all excited. I’ll try to make the definitions of these Greek-style architectural columns user-friendly and give you pictures:

Ionic- Capital (the top part) is decorated with spiral scrolls (looks like something out of Cleopatra or any one of those movies where half-naked guys run around fighting lions and all the women have gorgeous, almond-shaped eyes).

Corinthian- The most ornate of the three main orders of classical Greek architecture, characterized by a slender fluted column (champagne, anyone?) having an ornate bell-shaped capital decorated with acanthus leaves (those fern-like pointy leaves like Bacchus wears. These columns were designed when Greeks got all fancy-pants).

Doric- The oldest and simplest of the three main orders of classical Greek architecture, characterized by heavy fluted columns with plain, saucer-shaped capitals (boring, but still exciting) and no base.

Obviously, with the Doric the Greeks were like, “Ok, we are so done with this building. Watching those slaves lift those stones is hard work. I’m bushed. Let’s grab a beer.”

Now, dear readers, you know a bit more about my obsessive nature (love, love, love, love, love swirly buildings) and can dazzle your friends with your knowledge about columns (you never know when that might come in handy, “Hey, sweetheart, come with me and I’ll show you my column.”)

Yesterday I was feeling like I needed a boost so I flipped open Da Book and chose some things I had to do that day. I intended to do three but I managed a solid two. The first was, “Assess you Needs.” I ended up with a good list of those things that I need physically, emotionally and spiritually to be healthy and happy. The second thing I did was, “Write your Own Obituary.” I sat and thought, “What do I want people to say about me when I die? What do I want to have accomplished?” I’m sharing my obit with you, dear readers. Obviously some of the stuff, I have already accomplished on my decade and a half on this earth. Some of it I want to accomplish prior to the date at the end of my dash.

Michelle Janiece Godden Perin-Callahan

Michelle was born September 27th, 1975 at Good Samaritan Hospital in Corvallis (OR) to James August Godden and Nancy Janiece Snyder. One of four siblings, she was raised in a Navy family. She graduated from West Albany High School in 1993 and joined the Navy herself, along with her brother who graduated the same year from Corvallis High. Stationed in San Diego on the U.S.S. Dixon (AS-37), she followed in her beloved step-dad’s footsteps becoming a Storekeeper (SK). She quickly made rank becoming an SK3. She married Hull Technician (HT) Marc Stephen Howard in 1994. During her four years of service, she was stationed also at Naval Station San Diego and on the U.S.S. McKee (AS-41). She had her first son, Marc Cody Howard in 1995. After the service, she moved with her family to Phoenix (AZ) and joined the police department where she worked as a dispatcher/9-1-1 operator until 2005. Her second son, Dean Robert Howard (named after her maternal grandfather) was born in 2000.

In 2005, after the end of her marriage, she moved her boys to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where she pursued a full-time writing career. Amidst the snow and natural beauty of Lake Superior, she “found” herself letting go of the shackles she had been living under. In 2008, she moved back to Oregon, landing in Creswell, a small town between Eugene and Cottage Grove. While there, she became an active member of the Eugene Junior Generals Hockey Club, Lane Area Ferret Shelter & Rescue, Patriot Guard Riders and Alcoholics Anonymous.

During her dash (that time between her birth year and her death), Michelle filled the world with happiness, love, light and a sense of adventure. She loved her boys and wouldn’t have changed a thing about raising them. She loved riding her Triumph Bonneville America and the freedom of the open road. She visited all 50 states and 22 countries. Her fondest memory was attending the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia and being invited to skate on the ice with the Men’s U.S. Hockey Team. Her love of animals led her to run what she laughingly referred to as, “Michelle’s Foster Home for Geriatric Ferrets.” She loved hundreds of abandoned freasals until they were called across the Rainbow Bridge. She wrote 20 novels, including Desert Ice, a young adult story based heavily on her fond memories of her boys learning to play hockey in the frozen North.

Michelle loved life. She recognized she had seen the depths of Hell and by a power greater than herself she was pulled back into serenity and peace. She met the love of her life (and her partner in crime) in the program. Together they enjoyed the sun, rain, fog, snow and “burning through the mist.” Spunky well into her golden years, she asked the President to take her dancing when he called to wish her a happy 100th. She leaves behind her ray of light, as well as, her two sons, four grandchildren, ten great-grandchildren, 14 great-grandchildren and thousands of readers. She is now dancing (she loved that) in the light of our Lord, surrounded by loved ones and bundles of fur on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.
***

I truly hope my obit will read something like this and that newspapers are still around for it to go into and that the word count isn’t too long. Those who know me understand my struggle not with making it long enough but cutting it down. I certainly have a lot to say. God willing, I will be around for quite some time to continue sharing myself with my readers and painting with words.

Saturday afternoon, I strapped on my helmet and headed into Eugene. I wasn’t going to the Saturday Market or to the library (which I love. If you haven’t been to the Eugene library, you really must go. It’s a fabulous, three-story book, magazine, CD-filled wonderfulness [Julie you’ve officially influenced my vocabulary]). My task was a little less hedonistic. I pulled up in front of the Westside Apostolic Church at 11th and Grant and backed my bike up to the curb. There were already half a dozen bikes there. Several bikers stood at the doors of the church which was a refashioned strip mall with blue and white awning. I walked away from the doors and went across the street to meet our ride leaders. Mary and Gene, both well into their 70s, busied themselves putting together poles and unrolling flags. A small group had gathered around them. Gene handed me a pole explaining he had just figured out how to put together these new ones made of light-weight PVC for less than a dollar. It was lighter than the one I usually carried but still felt substantial enough not to be blown away in the wind. Gene called out across the street asking if there was a marine who would be willing to stand with the Marine Corps flag. A volunteer stepped forward. Clad in jeans and a leather vest adorned with his club patch, several patches honoring fallen club members and his club name, he headed across the street to join us leaving his group behind. A small smile crossed my lips as I knew this man. Just the day before, I had been honored when he asked to ride to the funeral with me. Our two groups attending the same event–a funeral to honor a fallen club member and a veteran. Now we would be standing on the flag line side by side. He rides with the Clean and Sober Motorcycle Club; I ride with the Patriot Guard Riders (PGR).

As we stood waiting to line up, somebody said the words, “Have you heard…” Nothing good ever comes after those words. It’s always something bad happened like a death or even if it sounds good, like a wedding, it comes with a gossipy caveat like, “and he married his cousin.” This time the phrase was followed by the news of a Chinook being blown out of the sky in Afghanistan. 31 lives lost, most of them American sailors. Members of Seal Team 6 were aboard that helicopter, as well as, several Afghan soldiers. They were coming back from a mission and had fought side by side. They now died side by side. My heart fell at the news. We stood in that parking lot on a sunny Oregon Saturday to honor a man who had stood for our country during Vietnam. Before the “words”, we had discussed the coming Monday and our invitation to escort the body of a fallen soldier from the airport to his families care in Florence. Now there would be 26 more flag lines to stand in, 26 coffins to escort home and 26 sorrowful moments as friends and family weep while we stand holding high the flags their children fought under and for. Our soldiers died half way across the world. Away from the loving arms of their spouses, parents and children. And, unfortunately, away from the often apathetic, self-absorbed and self-righteous Americans who went about their daily business never thinking about those who continue to FIGHT FOR US. Our men and women are not around the world having tea parties and playing chess. They are getting into fire fights and dying at the hands of enemies who have sworn to destroy our country and our way of life. I do not agree with a lot of what Americans have allowed to become our values and therefore what other cultures believe we stand for. What I do agree with is our right to change, to grow and to evolve. As Americans we have the right to chose our own careers (including bouncing from job to job or not working at all), to raise our children where we want, to have the number of children we want to (whether that’s none or 20), to pick our own clothes (even if that means jeans hanging down around your butt cheeks), shop for our own food, listen to music (even if it includes more cuss words than anything else), see works of art (even if it’s a photograph of a flag in a toilet). I won’t get into how many of our choices are influenced by social factors therefore limiting them severely for many Americans. I recently watched The Stoning of Soraya M. and it changed my whole mentality about how bad our choices really are. Watch it. Your appreciation for life and for being born an American, even an American Woman, will go up exponentially. People around the world are still fighting to just have dignity, respect and the right to breathe. Americans are lucky. We have our servicemen and women doing this fighting for us. And they are dying doing it.

As I stood in the flag line, my red, white and blue symbol of freedom flapping around me, I said a prayer for all the families who had lost loved ones in that helo across the world. I said a prayer for those who are still out fighting and those supporting them. I said a prayer for America that all of us will wake up and behave like the kind of people we can all be proud of. I also said a prayer for my big brother serving in Bahrain. God Speed Brother. We miss you. Thank you for your service. Because of you, I get to sit here on this beautiful Wednesday morning and share my honest thoughts with the world.

I have this pair of jeans…you know the ones that you just absolutely love and wear over and over and over again. As soon as they are washed and the dryer stops throwing them around, you reach in, pull them out and put them on. They’re those jeans. I got them on sale at Charlotte Russe on New Year’s Day. I love Charlotte Russe jeans because their longs are actually…wait for it…long. Their talls are actually for my definition of tall (read, me. All 5’10 of me) and not the tall based on the average height of American women (It’s a ridiculous 5’4.6”. No wonder I feel like an Amazon). Anyway, back to the jeans. They’re tall enough to crinkle around my ankles which I like and doesn’t create trauma flashbacks when I try them on (Growing up I had to wear jeans that didn’t even cover my ankle bones and No capris were not in style. If I could go back to visit my adolescent self, I would just crank those jeans up higher and walk around owning the look. Lead or get out of the way, ya know. Unfortunately, my adult self confidence eluded me as a teen).

Back to the favorite, awesome jeans…I wear them All. The. Time. Until this tragic Friday last. I was shimmying into them (this effort is required because you know how it is with great jeans; they fit just so on all your curves, therefore to get to your waist the fabric must get over the thighs. And I am never going to be mistaken for being anorexic), got them up, bent over to grab my shoes and rip! I would have thought I would rip out the butt when my jeans finally went but no it was down the seam of my left thigh right below the crotch. The rip just frayed and you couldn’t really see it so I wore them to work anyway. I believe all motorcycle riding did it (ok, I’m sure the excessive wearing, doing bow legged sit ups and sitting on the couch watching movies with my legs tucked up underneath me didn’t help). So, I’m sitting at work and I can’t quit thinking about and messing with the hole. I lamented to my supervisor, Julie, “Why don’t they make crotch patches for jeans?” There are elbow patches and knee patches but nothing designed to fit the crotch of a pair of pants. Please, someone invent this so I don’t have to either throw out my favorite jeans or (what I’ll most likely do) wear them regardless of my thigh fat poking through.

On a completely different note (as you’ll see I’m jumping all over the place with this entry…welcome to my mind), I also love fluffy towels (hey, there is a theme here. This is my I Love…blog entry). I jumped out of the shower the other day, grabbed the towel off the rack and wrapped it around me (ok, I tried to wrap it around me but the edges were all ruched and frayed and there were about four holes in it. One was actually big enough to qualify the towel as ass-less). WTH??? Bravely, I opened the bathroom door and streaked to my room hoping the living room wasn’t full of adolescent boys. I don’t know how many times I go into the shower with an empty house and get out hosting the teenage block party. I really should remember to bring my clothes into the bathroom but I won’t. I get to my room and begin to dry off. Description of the experience: Scratchy. Non-absorbent. Smells like teen spirit (read boy feet). After I get dressed, I (just for shits and giggles) look in the towel cabinet (nothing) and then dig through the stack of laundry at the foot of my bed. I pull out all the towels…holes…big bleach spots…shrunk to the size of a wash rag…looks like it was used to wipe down an engine (probably was. Don’t think I’ll ask to actually verify). I need new towels. Ones used for actually drying bodies and don’t smell like the trunk of my car (after the seals stopped working, rain got in and sat in a puddle for 3 weeks). Having not bought new linens for what seems like a decade or more, I did what any self-sufficient modern woman would do—I asked my co-workers where I should go to get some. Julie suggested Costco (with the slightly-crazed look she gets when saying those words) and I reminded her (gently as not to disturb her love for the store) I do not yet have a membership to this most fabulous place on earth. Maybe someday I will get over the fact that years ago I was unable to enter said store without coming out with mayonnaise the size of a television and a wallet the weight of feathers. Therapy might be in order. Maybe I could get my therapist to escort me to the store for the first few times to talk me through the aisles of giant pickles and face cream. Terri (also a Costco groupie) possibly seeing the distress on my face suggested Wal-Mart as a less terrifying option.

Things were not going my way (read, my serenity level was directly proportional to the level of my expectations) that evening. I wanted to throw myself on the ground and throw a tantrum like a 13 year old girl. Thank God for the semblance of self control my 12 step program has taught me. I did not have to kick and scream flailing in the parking lot in an incident that would forever shame me as my children reminded me what an idiot I looked like. Instead, I headed to Wal-Mart. Walking slowly down the towel aisles, I did what every good shopper of soft things does—I touched everything. Even though there was only about four choices of towels, I had to feel them all (You never know emerald might feel different than butter cream. It didn’t). I stood there torn (much like the towels left behind…in a pile…at the foot of my bed or the one sopping up water at the base of my washing machine—ok, maybe not that one. I usually just throw whichever one I have in my hand at the time I’m doing a load of laundry down there. Hmmmm, maybe the destruction of the towels is not totally the boys’ fault. Nah can’t go there or I’ll start taking responsibility for other things and what’s the point in that when I have perfectly good kids to blame?) I gravitated towards the white towels since Terri explained she kept hers fresh by buying the ones she could throw in with bleach. I picked one up and put it back. Picked it up and put it back. I just kept being drawn further into the aisle by the colors. White is just so borrowing (and would really look awful with grease, or dirt, or ahem, makeup rubbed into it). Ooohhhh, eggplant. It was more royal purple but I liked it. Then I remembered my blue and cream bathroom. I could always paint. NO! Buying towels was not going to turn into a complete remodel of the bathroom. Why does this always happen? Why? I moved a step over and rubbed my hand on the indigo ones. Preeeetttyyyy. Soooooft. Essentially, the felt just like the white and purple ones. Ooo, no, no, no, I moved over once again to the next color. Blue Moonlight. Perfect. I grabbed three, rubbed the hand towels for a minute considering them (no, Michelle, you do not need to replace everything at once. We’re working on balance and moderation, remember???) At home, I jumped in the shower immediately and bliss wrapped itself around me in the shape of a fluffy, soft Blue Moonlight towel from Wal-Mart. Heaven on Earth.

Recently, my supervisor introduced me to the writings of Jen Lancaster. Julie handed me a copy of Bitter is the New Black and it was all over. I believe I blew soda out of my nose on several occasions and just about fell off the treadmill on another. She. Is. Funny. As. Hell. (Jen Lancaster not my supervisor, although Julie can be pretty funny too especially when she is encouraging me to do outrageous things like commit acts of servitude while wearing full hockey gear [I’ll tell you about that later]) Jen’s book (like how we’re on a first name basis? That’s the glory of memoirs—by the time you’re done you know more about the writer than you probably wanted to and are therefore perfectly appropriate in being on a first name basis) created a monster in me. In the last three weeks, I’ve read two of her four memoirs (I’m so excited I found out about the fourth one, Pretty in Plaid. There’s nothing cooler than a prequel to something so so so funny) and her novel. I. Cannot. Get. Enough. (I’ve also determined she is a role model enough for me to steal her word, period, word, period-for-emphasis style). If it annoys you, I’m sorry but too bad (No, I did not steal her snarky style, I have just allowed her to allow me to free my inner child [read bitch]).

When I started reading her first memoir I couldn’t help absolutely hating her. She was the kind of girl that makes me want to vomit in the bushes. An unabashed ex-sorority girl with a fabulous fiancé who loved her no matter how evil and nasty she was making a ton of money and living kid-less in the fabulous city. Her nastiness was stark and in your face. I. Detested. Her. Then as I continued to read (and subsequently find more and more instances that made me want to wet my pants laughing) I realized we weren’t so different. In fact, the way we thought was pretty much identical. She just put herself out there on the page for everyone to judge and I just said sarcastic things about people, places and things in my head. Someone once told me that sarcasm was just another way of putting negative thoughts and words out into the universe. I was told it was a bad thing. That sucks! My whole family uses this style of communication and I think we’re pretty accommodating, non-judgmental people. We just like a good sparring of the wits and if you can’t hang—well you know what they say about puppies and pissing.

At first, I had a hard time relating to Jen’s life and her lifestyle. Then I had to stop and ask myself, “If my circumstances were the same, wouldn’t I be just like her?” Her experience: growing up in a rich family, went into a high paying dot.com job and goes shopping, shopping, shopping to keep herself adorned with fabulous clothes seen in Paris, New York and Milan. She loved all things brand name like Prada and Manolo Blotnik. She went to fabulous parties on cruise ships and drank expensive wine. Me: I grew up in a poverty-level military family (thanks good people of the U.S. for making sure your service men and women can feed their families. NOT!), went into the Navy myself (adaptive preference I suppose) and wore dungarees and combat boots. (I doubt you will find these on the runway anytime soon, but then again, if you were to just cut a few holes in them, sew on sequins and feathers and glue baby birds to the top of the boots, they might be well received). Brand names to me: Target, NEX and Wal-Mart brand. The only reason I even know those kitschy names such as Prada is from reading way to many celebrity magazines and books with pink covers adorned in tiny martini glasses. The parties I remember usually involved drunk cops on all fours barking like dogs in the back yard or my dispatcher friends flashing their boobs to my husband during a card game. I did go on a cruise once which is a great story involving snorkeling in Catalina, getting lost in Mexico and insisting the guitarist in the ship bank let me play instead. And expensive wine to me was drinking anything that didn’t come in a box. I had grown beyond Boone’s Strawberry Hill but not too far. Regardless of our completely different experiences, I found myself relating to Jen’s struggles and her raging desire to fight her way through the world. Some people call that a chip on your shoulder, I would say (and I believe Ms. Lancaster would as well) that’s called passion.

Now that I’ve started her third memoir, Such a Pretty Fat, which I practically raced down to the library when they called and said it was in for me, I just can’t get enough of her. She’s evolved into this very cool, down-to-earth, pit-bull loving, fat, ex-sorority girl that appreciates the finer things in life like ice cream and Target. Her story inspires me because it shows that those snobby, stuck-up nasty people I hate can change. And become more like me. Ok, maybe now I need to relook at myself (maybe later. I’m busy right now believing it’s all about me.)

If you want to wet your pants laughing, pick up one of Jen’s books. It’s a voyeuristic journey into the mind of an incredibly witty, intelligent social critic. Down. Right. Fabulous.

There are few things I love more than to throw down a blanket and lounge in the sun at the edge of some lapping body of water. Doesn’t matter if it’s a river, lake or the ocean, I love them all. I’m definitely a water sprite. Woke up this morning on my bed under the stars. I’ve always wanted to just throw my air mattress under the trees in the woods and sleep, so I did. Worried about bears or coyotes or rabid squirrels? Not so much. I’m a big baby when it comes to being cold so I was covered with about 6 blankets. By the time, the animal got close to me, he would give up figuring this meal just so wasn’t worth the trouble. That would be before he woke me up too and me before coffee—now that is downright scary. I slept pretty well after I finally fell asleep. It was hard to shut my eyes when the view above me was so magnificent. The sky was that shade of dark blue I only wish I could find in a sapphire ring-deep, dark and rich. Its so cliché but the stars literally glowed like they were on fire. Each little dot radiated luminescence and the sky sparkled with them. The experience could have been ethereal and primordial for me except for my poor cousin ate too many jalapenos and sounded like she was going to die just a few feet from my bed. Another reason carnivores would stay away (actually maybe it would attract them; she did sound like a wounded animal. Next time, I’ll let everyone know I have the milk in my cooler so when they return to camp with their stomachs on fire, they can just grab it a couple feet away and not have to stumble through the camp ground—in the dark—without a flashlight—with their stomach turning inside out—to get to the other campsite where our most camping prepared cousin is with probably milk in the cooler. Sorry Heather, I am so grateful we didn’t find you in fetal position along the road the next morning due to my omission). Anyway, my life was given added beauty due to the open-air digs.

When I woke, I decided I needed to go lay on the lake shore some more (of course after I downed several cups of coffee and did something with my hideous camping hair. I seriously don’t understand why when I hand out in the woods my hair manages to mat the way it does. I pulled it back into a pony tail and threw my handkerchief back on but I only managed to make it look like I took something Ginger, my cousin’s dog, hacked up and attached it to the back of my head. But hey, I’m camping. I just rocked the look. Maybe it will catch on and I’ll start a trend with its own line of regurgitated fur-ball hair clip-ons. You’ll see these on a Paris run-way some day, just wait.

After two giant cups of coffee, I felt awake enough to go plant myself securely on the sand. Heading down the path to the beach, I was surprised to see the three huge, canopy covers from the day before still put up at the head of the swim area. Seriously?? This is a public area. You don’t get to claim ownership of it with your garish beige and green canvas tents preventing other sun worshippers from gaining the best sun spot by creating shade. Go back to your camp site, there’s plenty of trees and shade there. You don’t need to create faux-shade on the beach. Sheesh.

I slip past the offending shades and find a spot close enough to the water to feel I’m on the lake shore yet far enough up the beach I don’t get a surprise wave up my back when I’m half asleep on my stomach (Don’t even get me started on the Beach Wave Attack of September, 2010). I threw down my suntan oil, book, blanket and pillow (I’m old enough to want to be seriously comfortable while I lay on the ground and not ashamed of it). Slipping off my shorts and tank, I plop contentedly onto my blanket. A nice breeze blows off the lake cooling down my skin. The lapping water soothes me. Peaceful, bliss—until the beach shade creating, sand hoarding people return with the two things that can ruin a relaxing morning splayed in the sun—young kids and dogs.

Soon after they arrive (amazing enough, the quiet sound of the waves lapping a few feet from my feet can no longer be heard), I’m lying on my back with one eye cracked open watching their two huge retrievers and brown hunting dog of some sort run all over kicking up sand. Why do people feel its okay to let their dogs run loose as long as it’s on a beach? I take that back—people feel its okay to let their dogs run loose wherever they want. But they’re our children! They exclaim. Fantastic, one more good reason they should be on leashes. I apologize (not really) but I am neither a dog person nor a baby person (children remain in the baby category for me until they can articulate their wants such as, Can I borrow the car, mom?) I really don’t appreciate it when your darling fuzz-ball shoves his nose into my crotch nor when your tow-headed prodigy grabs on to my leg to prevent falling. Anyway, I’m watching out of the corner of my eye when the hunting dog stops about four feet from me and squats. Fantastic! He drops his load and remains there for what seems like eternity (I was seriously ready to offer him my book), then sniffs it and runs happily off. By this time, the smell of dog shit has now joined the pleasant lake breeze wafting over me. I now turn my cracked eye towards the shade-makers. Nobody is moving. Seriously!!! People let their children play on this beach. Pick up after your dogs, people! Finally, not getting the response I want, I prop myself up on my elbows and glare towards the tents. Making first contact, my eyes bore into one of the shirt-less, definitely showing he’s on the wrong side of 35, beer-swilling at 930 in the morning baby-making, non-dog leash owners. At first, he quickly looks away, but I hold my ground. When he glances back, I’m still glaring. Reluctantly he gets up from his chair, grabs a shovel and cleans up after his dog (of course he just threw the sand and poo into the tree-line at the head of the beach). Finally, I can rest my head back on my pillow. Time to flip over. I contentedly settle my face into the soft fabric smelling of laundry soap. I truly think original Gain is the best scent ever. I wonder if that comes in a body lotion or bath beads.

As soon as I shut my eyes, the most grating noise of all starts—the sound of baby talk. Popping open the only eye not mashed into my pillow, I watch as “Grandpa” walks down from the shade-makers camp with a fistful of blue and yellow plastic horseshoes and two red, plastic stakes. Hobbling after him are two 4 or 5 year old girls. As he works to set up the game, he continues to explain everything he’s doing, asking their opinions in the most annoying baby talk voice. Seriously, people! Do you ever wonder why our children grow up and can’t string two sentences together? Enough with the baby talk. Just use your normal voice, with normal words and we can save the next generation. Besides those little girls are not going to give you their opinion on where you should set up the horse shoe stakes. Actually, maybe if they did they would have suggested you not place it ten feet away from the grouchy-looking girl lying on her blanket trying to enjoy the sun. Unfortunately, without their guidance that is exactly what he did. And, when the first child over-throws (wow, punkin, that was so good but a bitty bit too far), he’s surprised. I highly recommend he not write foreshadowing into any novel. He wouldn’t be good at it. All I can say is thank goodness for the attention span of little children. The girls soon moved on and I no longer had to worry about being tagged with a plastic horse shoe during my sun worship. I finally relaxed enough to shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, part of me (the OMG, I’m about to get my face ripped off part) wanted to mash them back together. Inches towards me, face to face, was a giant Saint Bernard (hello, Cujo anyone?) His gait was super timid which didn’t bode well for me. He’d inch forward a bit head down at my eye level staring me down. Anytime anything moved (like the wind) he would jump. He had that tense body language which made me want to jump up screaming and run into the water. That of course wasn’t an option; in fact I was terrified I might sneeze. He inched forward. I cussed in my head thinking of a million ways I would rather die than getting my face bit off. I seriously do not want the notoriety that the woman who got attacked by her friend’s monkey did. If I’m going to be famous, I want it to be for something cool– not getting eaten by some stranger’s dog (who was not on a leash I might add). Finally, we were almost nose to nose. I stopped breathing. Thankfully, he had drunk out of the same attention-span water as the little girls and he bounded off. I believe I melted into my blanket. I decided to go for a swim. After all the water was perfect, and treading water out by the buoy I figured dogs and children won’t bother me. Unless someone threw ones of those rocks the friend’s of the shade-maker’s pub kept chasing. That cannot be good for the teeth.

I’ve been horrible about keeping up on my status doing my own version of a Bucket List. Working out of 2001 Things to Do Before You Die since 2005, I’m trying to expand my experience in life. As of 6/6/2011, I have done 564 things. I believe in the last month, I have accomplished around 6 more, but I’d have to check. There were a few items I wanted to accomplish while I was Las Vegas (nothing in particular, I just figured there would be a ton of adventures related to Las Vegas-y things) but when I looked through Da Book (as I call it), I couldn’t find many. Maybe “Spit off the Eiffel Tower”? I could adjust that one a bit and do it from Paris in LV, but that would keep me from experiencing the full adventure of actually going to France. I would also feel bad if I spit on some coiffed-up bachelorette on her last day of freedom. (Granted that would give her a feel for what’s to come. What? I’m not bitter). Other things like “Throw your panties at Tom Jones,” could have been done in another era. I don’t believe he performs there anymore (I just wish the memory my mom so graciously shared with me of him wearing leather pants and gyrating to the theme song from Cats would fade. Thanks Mom for sharing). He has to be like a thousand years old now. I suppose I could just look some guy named Tom Jones up in the phone book, explain Da Book and see if he’d participate (after all that’s how it worked with “Drive a Maserati”—except minus any undies).

So, I didn’t accomplish much from Da Book although the Public Safety Writers Association (PSWA) conference that I was there for was excellent. We had a variety of speakers on a myriad of topics, including how television and movies get “cops” wrong, writing for non-fiction publications, screenwriting, setting, working with partners, and a touching panel of two firefighters (one from Toronto talking about his experience at Ground Zero and one from Detroit sharing his families journey when his son got caught in a back flash). It was great to spend time with old friends (I’ve been going to the conference for 6 years) and new friends, including Dr. Ellen Kirschman author of I Love a Cop. Not only is she a great person who has helped thousands of police and fire families over the years, she is a bundle of fun wrapped up in a teeny-tiny frame. I’ll post a photo of us together soon (ok, I truly am decedent from the Amazons). But as for Da Book, I spent more time looking through it and planning than actually finding anything I could accomplish then and there (After the conference, I did find I enjoyed spending my time cuddled into my hotel room bed reading anyway—not real conducive to finding adventure. Actually not true, I could be practicing for, “Spend the Entire Day in Bed.”). I did make a list of ten things to get started on once I left LV. Here they are:
• Create a regular blog (I’m trying as you can see. In true Clinton fashion, I would ask, “Define regular?”
• Write your high school teacher a thank-you note (Do I write one to Mr. Wolfe, my Junior and by-default Senior English teacher/Year Book instructor who I adored and was a HUGE influence in my desire to pursue writing and who’s preemptory advice probably kept me from getting thrown in the brig for telling my superiors [I use that term loosely] what I really thought of them and their instructions, or do I write one to Mr. Mr. Mr? [damn, I can’t remember his name off the top of my head], my Senior English teacher who obviously had a problem with me and my mouth, threw me out of class after an animated argument over the correct way to punctuate p’s and q’s and created the need for Mr. Wolfe to make an imaginary class for me so that I would graduate on time?)
• Watch Spinal Tap (I have that here somewhere. I think it feel behind the printer which is where my darling ferret Gambit believes everything should go including the contents of my In-box)
• Send Someone a “Just Thinking of You Card” (Do I have to know this person? Can I just send the card without writing anything on it? After all, the sentiment says it all. How can you elaborate on that? Guess that depends on who I’m sending it to. Maybe I don’t want to include what that “thinking” includes in detail)
• Leave your Umbrella and take a Walk in the Summer Rain (I thought that would be easy living in Oregon and all, but it seems like the only time it’s raining this summer is when I leave town. I’m not complaining but it makes doing this one hard)
• Write your Memoirs (Working on this ala Jen Lancaster-style. Does this blog count?)
• Achieve washboard abs (I am on day 13 of a 90 trial to see if doing 50 sit-ups a day [along with my regular work-outs] can achieve this goal)
• Hug and Kiss your Relative a lot more (This one’s tough because I was raised “Victorian”, have unresolved issues and generally have to struggle being affectionate. Then again, maybe Dolph Lundgren would agree to be my cousin for a while. Ok, that’s too gross)
• Watch Devil Girls from Mars (I wonder if I can get that from Netflix or if that’s the type of movie I have to go “behind the curtain” to get)
• Send Lox to Someone (Teresa I haven’t forgotten I owe you an Oregon basket)

So, that’s what I’m working on. I’m hoping by writing it here (and possibly with nagging support from my readers), I can accomplish a few more items. Oh, I do have to mention “Ride on the back of Sports Bike” was accomplished yesterday evening and all I can say is,

1) Wow!
2) Going fast rocks!
3) Anyone who controls his bike like that around the curves can take me for a ride anytime

Signing off now, Dear Readers. Leave me comment or a suggestion if you’d like. And, if the boy who took me for a ride is reading this,

Yes, I was duly impressed by the wheelie.

I’m sitting in Terminal A5/A6 at the Eugene airport awaiting my 10:35 am flight to Las Vegas. Sin City!!!! Funny thing is you don’t have to even get to the City before things get strange.

Here’s my question about flying: Why, when everyone has a giant carry-on bag and a giant personal item (is that rally a purse or does it double as a giant suitcase?) are the bathroom stalls so small? You go in forward pulling your inevitable giant carry-on with wheels with your giant (definitely not a suitcase, it’s a purse) personal item, then you wiggle in place to turn back towards the door carefully switching the handle of the carry-on from one hand to the other hoping it doesn’t tip over (which they tend to do because some designer is laughing out there about how front heavy they are; I lost some French fries in a toppling debacle once. It’s not joke) and attempting to avoid knocking the “feminine item” box off the wall (seriously, why is that up there and not on the floor by the toilet or why can’t everyone just discretely take their personal feminine hygiene item, wrap it in toilet paper and carry it out to the trash can by the sinks? Too modest? Trying to hide the fact you have a monthly bodily function JUST LIKE EVERY OTHER WOMAN IN THE ROOM??!!

Once you’re in, you maneuver to face the door, push the carry-on forward and away from where you will attempt to sit down, and wiggle in place to pull down your pants. Then you sit and hope your bag doesn’t fall forward and knock you off the toilet. When you’re done reverse process and repeat. All airports bathrooms should be handicap size.

I make it back to my seat without seriously injuring myself or others. I’m sitting in the terminal waiting (I’m a good, instruction-abiding passenger who gets to the airport early…just to sit and sit and sit.)The Eugene airport is small enough and the TSA is friendly and competent enough I could probably walk in and get right on the plane, but my military training taught me to follow the rules, so I sit.

It’s not a bad thing. They guy two rows back is yapping on his cell phone. Why is it that people place that small device against their ear and automatically believe they are surrounded by a sound-proof bubble? Or maybe people (Americans) have become so voyeuristic by watching reality show after reality show they truly believe other people’s lives will be blessed and enriched if they hear the story with the opening comment, “You will never believe what happened in the Costco parking lot yesterday?” Number 1: I probably will believe it. (I am a former 9—1 operator after all.) and Number 2: I really don’t care…unless it involves a parking lot full of motor officers and a slip-n-slide. Anyway I digress.

The guy sharing his phone conversation with me is in his early 20s, short brown hair, brown eyes, average height and weight, wearing a gray t-shirt with no print and a black NY baseball hat. Typical state college boy (yes, I’m stereotyping but I can do that. This is after all my story.) So, he’s telling the person on the other end of the line, “I went into the kitchen in the middle of the night and drank half a pint of Jaeger and two bottle of Heineken.”

I’m thinking: “Well that’s a boring tale. For this alcoholic, that’s the pre-dinner refreshment.”
Him: “I couldn’t believe it; I’ve never sleep-walked before.”
Me: “Seriously? Why don’t you just admit you drank your friend’s booze?”
Him: “I was just amazed. It’s incredible.”
Me: “You’re an idiot, a thief and a liar.”

And, I’m not in disbelief. It would have been better if he had added the cops and the slide.

Damn, I have to go to the bathroom again. And this time I’ve acquired a full cup of scalding coffee. Stupid, “Don’t leave your bags unattended at any time warnings!

This time it wasn’t a personal item container (that they mercifully recessed into the wall). It was the toilet paper holder. After I successfully complete my Twister-esque bathroom maneuvering (I think it would be easier to guide a Tender into Port Loma without a tug), I went to wash my hands. I had to go all the way to the end because all the front sink spots were taken up by young (20s-ok, ok, the older I get the younger they get) girls refreshing (caking on more) their make-up. Dude, I just want to wash my hands! The sink and soap dispenser are all motion sensor activated. I place my hands under the spigot and thankfully water (not scalding; not ice cold) comes out almost immediately. That’s so much better than the rest area sinks, where you have to wave your hands frantically and practically play pat-a-cake with the sink to get the three second spray. Then, for soap, it also came out quickly, in a ladybug-size blob. Sigh, I would really like to go back to the days when I got to decide how much soap and water I needed to wash my hands. This is all about corporate control—Don’t get me started.

Of course, the pea-size blob of soap must contain industrial-strength Borax because I can hear my skin breaking up and cracking with each passing second. And, of course, I don’t have any lotion because it’s little 3-oz, clear, marked bottle wouldn’t fit into the tiny, clear plastic bag allowed on the plane. Maybe they should start offering that on the snack cart.

“Coffee, soda, spirits, or some coconut-verbena body butter, ma’am?” (Everybody calls me that lately and it’s pissing me off).

I wish. By the way, the lady next to me just left her bags unattended.

The flight was delayed two and a half hours due to mechanical issues. A mechanic had to be called in since he (or she I don’t want to be sexist) had to come from another location (hopefully not the Brew N’ Cue). I suppose I’d rather get the plane looked at and cleared, therefore sitting in the airport for what feels like forever than the alternative (we won’t specify that now as I am currently writing this from in the air and am anxious my anti-anxiety meds will wear off). So, now I’m Vegas bound and ready to discover how many things from Da Book I can accomplish while child-free and in the happiest place on Earth (forget it Disney, have you seen the amount of ear to ear grins on people here, especially those with a 100-oz margarita in their hand or a jewel-outfit clad danger in their lap?) I’ll read through and report. I’m glad to finally be on my way, especially since I had to use the bathroom three more times…and I have to go again (damn you 4 cups of coffee and complimentary Diet Coke from the airline). Thank God, I don’t have to take my bags with me into the airplane restroom.