The Joys of Travel: Part the First

Hi, Traveling! It’s Kathrin. I have a bone to pick with you.

On a recent trip up into the wild blue yonder, I was reminded at just how much I dislike flying. It’s not the “traveling” portion of the affair that turns my stomach, mind you. I enjoy the bustling through the airport, looking self-important and dragging a suitcase behind me as it wobbles perilously to and fro on its tiny, tiny wheels. I enjoy the crapshoot of the security checkpoint, hoping that I didn’t accidentally leave a pot of forbidden lip gloss in my carry-on and willing the bag-checkers not to root through my underpants. And the getting there is fun to, when you get to scurry self-importantly through yet another airport on a frantic search for your suitcase which may or may not have been rerouted to Albuquerque against its will.

No, it’s the climbing aboard a metal monstrosity that should in no way be capable of flight (physics class be damned) and sitting in this pressurized death chamber for several hours as we soar through the air with the greatest of ease at 500 miles per hour at a comfy height of 32,000 feet above the ground (or ocean, as the case may be).

But I thought I was uncomfortable with flying. That is until I met Lady Shouts-A-Lot on my latest flight.

I first encountered this curly-haired wonder in front of me at the security checkpoint when she turned around and engaged me in a boisterous conversation about her dismay at having to take off her shoes and walk around on “God knows what,” as I believe she put it. As for me, anything that prevents a bomb from walking onboard with some madcap nutjob is okay in my book. Here, take my flip-flops. Hell, you can have my pants, too, if you want ‘em.

Well, lucky for me, Lady Shouts-A-Lot was seated on my flight! Right in front of me!! Oh, joyous day.

She engaged her traveling companions (a seemingly normal married couple) in many high-volume discussions that the whole plane was invited (read: forced) to enjoy. Here is a small sampling:
- She informed us that we should all be concerned for her, as by this time of day she has usually consumed three beers. Sadly, she’d only had time for one since our flight was delayed for two hours and, alas, the airport bar wasn’t yet up and functional. (Note: This sentence was uttered at approximately 10:00 a.m.)
- She drank no less than three vodka and Sprites while on our 1-1/2 hour flight (and ostensibly spent at least $20 on hooch and cabin-temperature soda pop).
- She thrilled us with the specifics of exactly how the alcohol would have a dreadful reaction with her new prescription of Paxil.

She is also guilty of wearing too many bracelets and using too much scrunch spray. Just a dab’ll do ya, Lady Shouts-A-Lot.

So attention, travelers: If you think that you are uncomfortable with flying, boating, paragliding and/or hot air-ballooning, rest assured that there will always be someone aboard your vessel who is leagues more unstable than you.

And if she’s clutching a cocktail in one hand and a spangled wicker bag in the other, tell her hello from me.

Don't You DARE Bring Any Eye Cream

We all know that air travel has become an increasingly annoying adventure in recent years. And well, I can understand why, what with all the loony bins hanging about, hatin’ on America and our freedom-loving, debaucherous ways. Jealous much?

Anyhoo, in planning for an upcoming vacation involving climbing aboard one a them ther’ flyin’ machines, I had a need to check the Transportation Security Administration’s website to make sure I didn’t bring any contraband onboard. You know, anything wacky like perfume or scrunch spray.

And lo and behold, the TSA, God bless them, have listed for us the unintentionally hilarious dos and don’ts of air travel. I have provided said list below for you, to help you steer clear of any packing calamities that might otherwise befall you. The following items are permitted:

Baby formula and breast milk if a baby or small child is traveling
(However, if you’ve decided to leave little Johnny at home with Grandma for your weekend rendezvous, then I’m afraid you must leave your Breast Milk Smoothie at home.)

All prescription and over-the-counter medications (liquids, gels, and aerosols) including KY jelly, eye drops, and saline solution for medical purposes
(If we are to assume that the examples are listed in order of importance [as things often are in list form], then why, God, why is KY Jelly first? WHY?)

Liquids including water, juice, or liquid nutrition or gels for passengers with a disability or medical condition
(I will leave this one alone, as I do have a heart, albeit a tiny, shriveled, blackened one.)

Life-support and life-sustaining liquids such as bone marrow, blood products, and transplant organs
(No Breast Milk Smoothie for you, Mom and Dad, but you may bring a cooler full of delicious, delicious kidneys. Vampires, your feedbags of blood are also acceptable.)

Items used to augment the body for medical or cosmetic reasons such as mastectomy products, prosthetic breasts, bras or shells containing gels, saline solution, or other liquids
(Climb aboard, Anna Nicole! You don’t need to check your plastic funbags at the gate anymore!! And help Lohan with her suitcase – it’s weighing her down.)

Gels or frozen liquids needed to cool disability or medically related items used by persons with disabilities or medical conditions
(I must be running out of steam, because I had to read this one four times before I understood it. In the wake of my confusion, I had a whole hilarious paragraph written about what kind of medical condition would require you to tote cooling gel packs with you at all times, but now it will never see the light of day. And the world collectively weeps one single, salty tear.)

Happy travels, y’all!

Up Next in The Gallery of the Absurd and More-or-Less Useless

The Octodog! Feast your eyes upon this culinary marvel:



Hmmm … what’s grosser than hotdogs? I know! Hotdogs shaped like cephalopods!

Just imagine their spindly little legs splayed out across your child’s plate, intermingling with their strained peas and breaching the boundaries of their mac and cheese. Fun!

And for only $16.95 (?!), this advantangeous little hunk of plastic can be yours, making tubes of nitrates and hog anus more fun than ever before in five easy, peasy steps:

1. Slide your hotdog of choice into the device's gaping maw.


2. Secure the little beast by cramming The Octodog's dismembered eyes back into their sockets.


3. Impale the helpless dog on the enclosed stake (parental supervision suggested to avoid accidentally making Octodigits).


4. Free your frankfurter by ripping out The Octodog's eyeballs and removing the stake from its nether regions (may require some violent shaking).


5. Cook as desired and enjoy with your favorite preservative-filled side dishes.


Order yours today!

An Open Letter to the Crazy Lady at the Grocery Store

Dear Madam,

Hello! You may remember me from our encounter at the friendly neighborhood Kroger a few months ago. I was the blond in the flouncy skirt who was perusing the salad section. You were the … eccentric … woman who was also (unfortunately) perusing the salad section.

Let’s be clear: When I politely smiled at you as I passed by the display of tomatoes (both plum and cherry), it was more of a courtesy, really. I did think better of it, however, when you turned your hooded eyes on me with a gaze that was part-crazed, part-lifeless.

And as I’m sure you recall, things only went downhill from there.

I skirted past your squeaky-wheeled cart, which had taken up residence in one of the aisles in an off-hand, careless fashion not unlike the disarray of your frizzy, Chow-like hair. As I parked myself squarely in front of the spinach (pre-E. coli scare), I could sense you inching ever closer, and I grew increasingly more alarmed. Maybe it was your well-worn moccasins paired with tapered, acid-washed jeans that filled me with fright. Maybe it was your overabundance of turquoise necklaces. Maybe it was the aforementioned Crazy Eyes or cotton candy hair.

We can’t be sure. But allow me to answer the slightly slurred question that you posed.

I don’t have an earthly clue what you should cook for “your man.”

I don’t believe that I know your man, as I’m going out on a limb and guessing his name is Bubba or Earl, and I know no one with these monikers. I also would wager a guess that he doesn’t spend much time at Ann Taylor or New York Deli; hence, we likely haven’t bumped into each other.

In short, I doubt that I’ve made the acquaintance of your paramour, and therefore I know not of his culinary tastes.

There. That’s out of the way.

I’m sure that you’re curious as to why I then walked away. You see, I believed our conversation to be over. Ahh, that’s where I was mistaken. Or rather, you were mistaken, as somehow you came to believe that our four-second exchange had forged a deep, meaningful friendship that warranted further exploration, possibly including a mani/pedi and a frappuccino.

Alas, it had not.

And I would like to apologize for ignoring your next attempt at a tête-à-tête in the bread aisle. Allow me to explain: You didn’t make an actual statement. You merely began babbling unintelligibly, potentially in another language, but I’d gamble that it was a make-believe one.

I’ll also apologize for tearing away at top speed, careening through the butcher section to put as much distance between your braless chest and my person.

In closing, I’m sorry that we didn’t form a lifelong bond there next to the cucumbers.

Oh, and one last thing. I’ll presuppose that Bubba/Earl doesn’t particularly care for salad. Perhaps that’s where you went wrong in the first place. May I suggest the canned bean aisle?

Good day,
Kathrin

The Noodle Band Show

My family is insane. It is quite awesome.

And I don’t mean insane in the everyone-is-in-therapy-and-we-all-secretly-hate-each-other way. I mean the everyone-is-staring-at-us-in-this-fancy-restaurant-because-we’re-all-laughing-like-certifiable-lunatics kind of insanity.

It is the best kind of crazy.

For example, about a year ago my mom, my sister and I were on a vacation together at a well-known theme park that shall remain nameless as they’re incredibly fond of suing people. We were strolling down a main thoroughfare one day, when we inexplicably decided to start a jug band.

Yes, a jug band. None of us actually play the jugs professionally, but we figured, being a musically inclined family, that we could figure it out.

The name of said jug band, you ask? The Noodle Band Show.

When we stumbled upon this fantastic notion, we decided that practice would commence immediately. Not having any suitable jug-like instruments within striking distance inside the park, we decided to improvise and merely pretend that we had jugs in our possession. We continued on through the remainder of the trip, playing imaginary jugs wherever and whenever the fancy captured us, earning raised eyebrows from many a vacation-goer, bus driver and (we can only assume) costumed character.

My sister and I determined that we would share lead jug duties in The Noodle Band Show. My mother, who is the only person in the family that could be considered a professional musician, was given the seemingly less important task of sitting on a stool and clapping to keep time. While this may seem frivolous, it’s all about the image, people. My father, even though he was not on this particular vacation, was allotted to play the washboard, but only after he grew a four-foot gray beard. I repeat: It’s all about the image.

One would think that this little fantasy would evaporate as soon as the vacation was over and we left The Land of Childhood Imagination. Not so. Upon returning home, we began recruiting other people to join The Noodle Band Show. Two of my sister’s roommates came on board with little provocation. One offered her services in the form of playing upended trashcans for percussion, while the other would clog in time to the music. A friend of mine proposed that she and I put our dogs in the band as well, allowing them to fight in the front while we played. The clogger would have to mind that she didn’t step on their tails.

And over Thanksgiving, loopy on zinfandel and Georgia pecan pie, we wrote the band's first song.

We don’t get together to practice much anymore, but when we do, we’ve still got the magic.

Look for us at a swap meet or Wal-Mart near you. Feel free to do a little flat-footin’ if you’re in the right frame of mind. Just watch out for the dogs.

Misty Watercolor Memories

Man. Being a kid was a good time.

I distinctly remember always wanting to be just a little bit older, taller, more grown-up, et cetera. But now that I’m older, taller, and (ostensibly) more grown-up, I realize that I seriously misdirected my attention into the future when I should have been wallowing pig-like in the delightfully immature activities that only a child can get away with. Dammit.

Silly Straws

These were usually obtained in one of two ways: by wheedling/strong-arming your parents into a last-minute impulse buy at the grocery store cash register, or contained within a birthday party favor bag. They were always made of extremely hard plastic, and the opening was juuuust too small, making drinking from them a bit of a challenge. I was always slightly afraid that my head might cave in while attempting to suck up that last bit of Tab. They also tasted funny, a bit like soap. But GOD, were they awesome. I triple dog dare you to rock one out at your next company meeting or salary review.

Pixy Sticks

Confectioners sugar intermingled with powdered citric acid and artificial flavors and colors? Yes, please! But you had to eat them quickly, otherwise their paper vessel would become clogged with spit, thereby thwarting your consumption. Oh, and don’t inhale until said Stick is far away from your mouth and nose. Nothing burns like Pixy breath.

Candy Buttons

Who thought these were a good idea? Some brilliant genius, that’s who. Remember sitting on the curb nibbling these things off of the sheet, and then picking paper out of your teeth? Delicious and entertaining. It's a two-fer.

Cap Guns

I'd advise against inciting a cap gun battle at a public park or strip mall near you. Somehow I think the authorities would mistake your whimsy for bloody aggression and mace your ass. But these little guys were great fun, especially when you got to stage a Cops vs. Robbers or Cowboys vs. Indians death scene. Or, you could roll like me – get bored of the running and shooting and just bang on the strip of caps with a hammer on your best friend’s stoop until his dad comes out and yells at you. Whatever.