Royal Distraction

I have been MIA for the past couple of days because I took a quick trip to Delaware. (And so help me, if the first thing you associate with Delaware is Wayne's World's, “Hi. I'm in.. Delaware, hyuck hyuck” then I disown you as a cyber friend. Or any other kind of friend, for that matter.)

We went back for a little bridal shower so that some of the relatives (several of whom I don't think are going to make it to Colorado for the actual wedding) could get together and talk about Very Girly Things. I got to hang out with my Grandmom, who at 95 is still able to keep up with the Grand Marnier digestif (post-several bottles of wine) after dinner along with the rest of us alcoholics that make up our family, but is now wheelchair bound and very frustrated about the whole thing. (Though Grand Marnier helps.)

Something you may or may not know about me is the fact that I am terrified of flying. I have been flying my whole life, and when I was a kid, I even used to look forward to it. Mostly for the magnetic wings pin and peanuts, but I was down with the whole being-in-a-pressurized-tube-zooming-through-the-air-thing, too. Then suddenly, somewhere around age 14, I had the ultimate meltdown, and started having raging panic attacks on planes. This did not prevent me from traveling several times a year, it merely introduced me to fun, hard-core anti-anxiety medication. Trust me, Chicago O'Hare is AWESOME when you are high, with that whole flicker-y neon lights and New Age music thing they've got going on at the bottom of the escalators.

Back to this trip. Over the years, I have weaned myself off of the drugs, for as fun as they were while flying, they were a nuisance once I was on the ground because I wanted to enjoy my trip, not drool my way to the nearest bed to sleep through the entire first day. But unfortunately, as we were coming home yesterday, we hit some major air current-thing-ies. It was... terrifying. But! I think I have found a cure for my phobia! Unfortunately, it's not as fun for The Funasaurus, but it certainly helped my anxiety. I went to go grab The Funasaurus' arm as we hit yet another mountain of rattling wind, and as I turned to clutch his arms I noticed his eyes were closed and his normally lovely, tan face was an odd shade of... green.

Well, you don't just see a green Funasaurus every day! I was immediately distracted. “You o.k., baby?”

“Murmph. Seasick.” And then his coloring shifted from seafoam to seaweed.

Suddenly, I was a girl on a mission. A mission to find a barf bag. I ignored the severe turbulence as I helped myself to the pocket of the guy sitting in the aisle seat, and then glazed over a jolt of wind as I poked my brother (who was conveniently on the same flight, sitting in the seat in front of me) “Any barf bags up there?”

“No. But apparently planes are not taking off from DIA, because of the severe wind. But our captain is going to try and land, anyway,” he replied, plugged in to the control tower communication in his armrest.

Super. Thanks for that.

But I was back to searching through my own bags for something suitable for the now cringing Funasaurus to expel his half-digested, overpriced snack box contents into, because so help me there would be no barfing on my new Nambe serving platter that I was hand-carrying back to Colorado from the shower on MY watch!

I didn't find much, other than an in-flight magazine to cover aforementioned serving platter, but fortunately the landing happened soon after, and The Funasaurus was able to keep his shit together and slowly began regaining normal flesh tones. And I really was able to focus on something else (pretty new gifts for our house and an ill fiance) without freaking out about landing in a wind storm.

Now we are home again, to the evil kitties and the work that never ends. Next stop, Orlando.