I would have driven, too, if the plane I was in dropped thousands of feet really, really fast.  I would have left the hash and cocaine on the airplane where it belonged, though. I probably would have never flown again.  Well…that’s just what anybody would say in that sitch…and then they’d get right back on like I did.  I’ve had that dropping from the sky experience and the only thing it’s good for is to give you a taste of your own stomach which has no practical benefit that I can see.   But I’m a soul who likes to wander so I just paint my yellow belly over with some happy, happy color – like black, my personal fave – and suck it up.  What choice is there?  I had a Greyhound bus experience way back when that I’ve spent years trying to forget.

So flying it shall be.

My paranoid fear of flying manifests itself in bizarre plane crash dreams with happy endings. Yeah, I know.  But I’m full of contradictions.

Often, I’m riding on the OUTSIDE of the aircraft which explains aforementioned reference to “on the horse”.  I watch calmly as we plummet into a corn field or careen down a crowded freeway all the while telling my sleeping self and those around me who may be sobbing and screaming – like people I’m supposed to know but always look like people I don’t know – that all will be well.  “Who wants to go to Miami anyway when you can use the Dan Ryan as your own personal landing strip.  Don’t get that experience every day, do ya?” I tell them.  This generally calms them down until we crash safely which usually wakes me up.

This is a recurring them for me, these quasi-crashes.  That and possessing the ability to actually fly myself.  I had a doozie the other night where I actually had to teach my husband that he could fly, too.  He was skeptical.

When I’m actually awake, I’m not a great flyer.  I don’t outwardly panic or act like an idiot even though my innards are flopping around like beached carp.

I rarely look out the window lest it remind me just how insanely far from terra firma we are and how in theee hell this contraption doesn’t drop like a stone and wouldn’t it be better if some brainiac could just invent a molecular transporter to deliver us to Aunt Jen’s in Omaha instead? It would save so much time and energy and fossil fuel.  But I guess for now, it is what it is and I’ll have to deal with the low-tech version of flying and all the shit that goes with it like security lines.  Oh, the overwhelming panic when I showed up for a flight last week and realized I was wearing boots!!  Up to the knee boots with no zipper. God damn it! My feet start swelling the minute they step foot inside an airport terminal.  Now some poor schmuck has to wait behind me while I try and wrestle these babies off my sausage feet.

But today I am having a peaceful flight.  Perhaps I’m dreaming but I’m not out on the  wing so probably not. The weather on the ground was bleak and gray and drizzly. A typical Midwestern winter.  We had to climb and climb through white, soupy haze that went on for what seems like forever until….

Sunshine.

Bright and glorious.

A beam hits the screen of my iPad and shoots a blinding arrow of light into the left eye of the man sitting next to me. This ruined his otherwise kinda good mood. Thank the gods it’s my husband and he can tell me to tilt the fucking thing away from him without offending me.  I do and he thanks me.  He tilts his own just right and blinds me back.  Ah, revenge….the foundation of any solid marriage.

Below us is a virtual sea – an endless sea, actually – of white fluff.  It’s flat like the middle-state we just left but without any broken, winter cornstalks… or Wendy’s.

It’s cool.  Oddly peaceful.

Like flying in heaven if you believe in such things.

Or maybe it’s just because I’m going home.

Then again, I did have a strong urge to slam back a shot or two after a recent shopping experience.  I debated on whether or not to call this post “An Open Letter To Nordstrom Stores” but decided broad is better.

As I stare down the short end of life-half-over there are certain words and phrases  sneaking their way into my vocab.  Like bifocals, estate planning, brow lift.  I catch glimpses of myself in mirrors and wonder who the hell this person is that’s mocking me.  Sometimes I get this crazy grade school cafeteria flashback of that horrible week when I was 9 and Lisa Wyers decided to point at me and tell everyone to hate me for no reason.  That was a million years ago and I STILL remember it like it was yesterday. I can’t eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to this day without it sticking in my throat.

Bitch!

And now a gnarly Nordstrom’s dressing room has taken Lisa’s place….40 goddamn years later!!  Not just the dressing room itself which was quite spacious.  It had a cute, padded bench, a lovely little framed print of Milan, a gigantic, three-panelled mirror plucked from a traveling Midwestern carnival…

And then came…

The lighting.

Hideous.

White.

Fluorescent.

Unforgiving?   No. Not strong enough.

Judgmental.  That’s it. Judgmental.

It revealed every crater, every bulge, every fat cell desperately trying to hide itself under relentlessly thinning skin.

It spoke to me, this lighting. It had a voice.  A voice right outta some chilling film. Sneering, mocking, sinister.  If this voice had a face?  It would be Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs.   ”Love your suit.”

Here’s the deal, department stores…..

Do what Merv Griffin did in all the women’s bathrooms at the Beverly Hilton…..

He made sure the lighting was FLATTERING.

Why?

Because women in good moods makes the world a better place.  Trust me on this.

Now, I’m not a man basher in any sense of the word.  I love men.  More than I should which has gotten me in more trouble than I want to admit in writing.  However, it’s generally men who build these places and aforementioned men have not had cellulite on their asses since they were 3 months old which should preclude them from ever lighting a woman’s dressing room.

Ever!

So here’s a tip Nordstrom:   better lighting = more sales.

I don’t know about anyone else out there….but this here broad will pay full boat for anything if her ass and thighs look smooth in the harsh reality of down light.  Delusion is the BFF of the female, fashion-hungry consumer.

Something to think about, retailers.

And fuck you, Lisa Wyers, wherever you are.

Life gets increasingly…hectic? High-pressure?  Or just plain hard, I guess.

Sometimes I lose faith.

Then I get it back.

Humanity disappoints.

Then humanity redeems itself.

And unexpectedly, I meet someone who quite literally takes my breath from me.

Like the “girl” in Austin.

I did not catch her name.

I was too mesmerized.

She looked so much like Lori.

Blonde, tall, vivacious, oozing a comedic sensibility.

Her hands move as she speaks…just like Lori’s did…as if spinning the words like spider silk.

Everything delivered with bone-dry wit.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Does she notice?

My eyes are going to overflow.

[Please don't notice.]

I want her to never stop talking.

I want to ask her what it’s like now….where she is….can she see us?

How utterly ridiculous of me.

I want to thank her.

“For what?”, I can imagine her saying.

For surprising me.

God, that’s so Woody Allen.

I have that feeling right now after the Austin success. Probably brought on by the weird flight home.

Delayed…..some sort of “computer glitch” we were told. Uh huh.

[I can still make it!  I'm sure the next flight is delayed, also!]

We take off finally.

But not until after an irritating display of technological idiocy from the woman squeezed into the seat next to me.

[Stop that!]

She keeeps punching at the personal video screen in the seat back in front of her. She made me and my techno-pea-brain look like Stephen Hawking.

How many punches does it take to figure out the fucking thing is NOT a touch screen?

[Doesn't she know that the poor dude sitting in that seat can FEEL that?]

We finally take off but we’ve  eaten through quite a bit of the 37 minute Houston to San Jose layover.

[Don't worry.  It'll be fine.  I'll make it.]

Damn.

We climb a little.

But not very much.

I’m still seeing freeways….and  cars moving on said freeways.

Hmmmm.  Shouldn’t we be seeing that quilt-like display of farmland and funky looking crop circles thingies you see out the window….when you head OUT of one city and on to the next??

Okay….Im having a flashback to that time in the Philippines when the single engine plane I was in had to land in a goat pasture. Same feeling of why the hell isn’t this thing getting any higher?

[Oh, this is just great!  I finally make something of myself after fifty long years and fate snatches it from me on the way home??]

My heart starts to pound.

I feel faint.

Clammy.

A little queasy.

I think about grabbing the vomit bag.  On Continental, they double as an I’ll-be-right-back seat saver.  They are a lovely shade of blue.  The ones on United are white and remind you NOT to put them back in the seat pocket after use.  Good to know.

Techo-dummy leans across me to look out the window.

[Please return to your own space!]

She smells like lavender and fast food. Two smells that really should not end up in the same place.

For a second I think she may have the same thought. About the lack of altitude, I mean. Not the lovely-flowering-plant-meets-Big-Mac thing.

Then I had only one thought and that’s how annoying people with no concept of personal space are.

[Okay, This is good...a thought other than...the end is near.]

She leans back.

[Thank you.]

Starts punching that damn screen again.

[That's funny.  She LOOKS normal. Perhaps it's some kind of....disorder.  Just ignore it.]

But…damn.

We are still flying a little low but we’re still airborne so I’m starting to feel a wee bit better.

We take two sharp banking turns.

One hard left and then a few minutes later a hard right. I’m talking hard. Like some people were actually making that silly “I’m a soaring airplane” sound we made as kids, our skinny little arms stretched out like wings. Something like this: reeeoooowwww. You know the sound.  You’ve made it.  It’s just a little hard to spell.

[Stop doing that!  I'm getting scared all over again!]

Anyhoo, I don’t know geography that well, but I think Houston is a pretty straight shot from Austin as the crow flies so the only thing I can think is that they’re slowing us waaaaay down so we don’t get to Houston too early.

More munching on that layover niblet.

We arrive.

2 minutes to get to the gate that is 6 1/2 miles away.

I run.

And I am not a runner.

But today?  I was O.J-fucking-Simpson…pre-indictment.

My knees ache.

My lunges feel like they’re exploding.

[I thought I was in better shape.]

There is no one at the gate counter.

I beat on the glass door.

Hello?  Somebody? Anybody?

I run up to a guy at a little booth.

Can you help me?

Sorry, I don’t work here.

[Then why the hell are you standing in that booth?  At the airport?  Don't answer that.]

I can see the plane…it hasn’t left!

A guy from Continental finally appears.

No…I cannot get on.  They have closed the doors.

But…but….

No.

Six hours in Houston….

I called my entire family, watched a couple of movies, missed my husband like an amputated arm.

But I made it home.

And I am happy.

Say….does lung tissue regenerate?

It just so happens that we’re in Kona.

Just to be clear….I am not in the competition.

There are many, many very fit people here in Kona.

Just to be clear…I am not one of them.

Yeah…I can run a mile if I’m being chased by a homicidal maniac but generally, I prefer yoga and a brisk walk.

And on one such brisk walk pre-Ironman, I encountered a few of these very fit folks.

One in particular is single-handed responsible for damn-near ruining my vacation.

She was spectacular.

Tan.

Off-the-charts fit, running in ubershort shorts and a tight running top (sans bra fat spillover).

Washboard abs.

No visible sign of perspiration.

Nothing whatsoever jiggled.

She smiled cheerfully.

I shuffled past, my iPod ear buds barely able to stay put in my profusely sweating ears (yes, ears CAN sweat, smartasses).

I briefly considered shoving her into the razor-sharp lava rock minefield we were passing by…but….

…pity took over.

My hatred evaporated.

What might life be devoid of M & Ms and Vodka?

Oh, what a sad, sad, existence.

I minded my business and let her be…poor, poor deprived creature.

I thought about her many times as I sat on the beach, swathed in a sheet (two eyes cut out, of course), sunning my feet.

Who needs rock-hard abs when you’ve got a good pedicure, right?

I’ve known my husband for what seems like forever and he has never, I repeat, never bought a bag of Corn Nuts.

I sent him to the store to get munchies for the mini-bar since the hotel charges $35 for a bag of pretzels.

And this is what he comes back with?

I mean, what the hell IS a Corn Nut anyway??

Is it corn?

Is it a nut?

It simply cannot be both.

I am on vacation.

I do not want confusion.

I do not want a corn snack dressed up like a peanut which is, to me,  a corn snack in drag.

I want Cheetos.

I want Baby Goldfish (cheddar, of course).

Jeez!…who IS this guy!!

I’m not even gonna mention the Cracker Jacks.

The prizes are completely lame these days….just fyi.

My diabolical-self-deprecating-hair-shirt inner voice screamed that at me this afternoon during snack time (an apple with peanut butter).

I was standing at the kitchen counter minding my own goddamn binuss, basking in the joy of becoming a finalist in the Austin Film Festival screenwriting competition and WHAM!  Fuck you and your joy, you peri-menopausal moron!

God, I hate that voice.

They make movies about inner voices like that.

Like Summer of Sam.

Where the hell is Spike Lee when I need him, huh??

So that inner voice kept taunting me until I devoured an entire jar of peanut butter (846 grams of fat) with a wooden spoon…the apple didn’t last long….and chugged half a gallon of milk (another 450 grams) and two Snickers (why the fuck do I buy these???).

For the record, my inner voice sounds strikingly similar to Glenn Close as Cruella DeVille (“Catch those puppieessss!”).

Glenn as Cruella said (mockingly of course):  ”You’re gonna get to Austin and they’re gonna say to you ‘ We love your work, but Hollywood wants…how should we put it?… young…and that’s not you’.  Sorry.”

What a bitch that voice is.

I really hope that doesn’t happen.

Generally…..I’m not such a pussy….really….I’m not!

I do not like feeling this way.

It will pass.

It always does.

Today it was Bose noise cancelling headphones.

Actually, I bought them for my husband so I can snap them on his head during a flight when a baby starts screaming.  Sitting next to him when a baby starts screaming on a flight is actually worse than the screaming baby so this purchase (not unsubstantial, I might add ‘cuz these fuckers are NOT cheap) was kind of selfish.

So I gave them a test drive.

And my selfishness went on holy-shit-turbo-overdrive.

iTunes and I are now insperable….and close….very, very close.  Closer than we ever were.  So close that I think my heart will explode.

It is as if I am hearing music for the very first time so rich is the sound pulsing through these glorious pods cocooning my soon-to-be-deaf ears.

Wanna experience a musical orgasm?  Follow the instructions below:

1)  Place the pods gingerly around your head.

2) Take a moment and drink in the nearly complete silence (if your neighbors are fighting, all the better OR crank up America’s Got Talent so you can drown out that surly British dude as he dashes the hopes of some poor 10-year-old).

3)  Go to iTunes or the music library of your choice and listen to something that makes your heart sing (For me, it’s Little Martha by the Allman Brothers – poor , poor Duane – God rest his soul).

4)  After the orgasm is over…buy me a nice fruitcake for the turn-on.

And if you see some blissful woman with black cans on her head sitting next to a man ready to zip himself out of his own skin because of a screaming infant?

That would be me.

You can mail the fruitcake.

I ran across it during one of my late-night channel surfs.

I guess When Fish Attack is better than I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant…..

….Or I Survived which is show on the Biography channel where some poor innocent describes how a deranged killer tried to sever their head with a rusty piano string or some such gruesome-ness.

And they run the clip over and over and over while I’m all alone, late at night, chasing sleep with a nice light Bio on Barry Manilow and WHAM…wide awake and scared shitless.

I need to just step away from the remote.

Pathetic for a writer, wouldn’t ya say?

And I got a kick-in-the-head visual reminder today of just how lazy I’ve become.

It’s hard to believe that such a tiiiiny little creature has both the ability to a) creep me out and b) create this spectacular display of nature at its finest in the time it took that Ambien I popped last night to work and wear off.

Upstaged by a fucking arachnid.

In my own garden.

Time to get off my ass.