There Is Medication For It, and It's Called Vodka

One week from today The Mister and I will jet off for Australia. We will spend about two weeks there, during which time I will spread my delightful brand of American joy to everyone whether they want me to or not, and my husband will snarf up as much vegemite as he can possibly stand since it's now illegal to bring it into this country. I would have thought they'd outlaw that stuff on the basis of it being an affront to each of the five senses, but they opted to use some harebrained idea instead about it containing too much riboflavin or something. Whatever the reason, I'm just relieved I no longer have to examine my food with a magnifying glass to make sure my beloved didn't slip any of that swill into dinner without my knowledge.

For the most part the preparations for this trip have gone quite smoothly. We booked the hotel rooms online. Easy peasy Japaneesy. (Is that racist? I honestly don't know. If it is, I'm sorry to all my Asian friend. Don't email me, people!) We made the airline reservations online as well, and in so doing were able to take advantage of one of my favorite features of traveling during the age of the internets: picking your own damn airplane seat from the comfort of your home. The only way they could make that better is if they included a bio of each of your fellow passengers. Toddler in seat 32A? Pass, Bob. Middle aged bachelor in who still lives with his mother on his way to a Star Trek convention in row 14? Uh-uh. New age hipster who travels with her good luck crystals and delights in passing them out to others in an attempt to ward off bad karma while fostering airplane harmony? Oh, hell no, and please get me as far away from that nutbar as possible.

Unfortunately we do not have that knowledge at our disposal, so we can only make our best guess as to what constitutes prime airplane real estate based on the pretty pictures and diagrams provided. We selected our seats on the flight from Nashville to LA with no problem, as well as for the flights from Melbourne to LA and LA to Nashville when we return. But when we tried to make our seat selection on the LA to Melbourne flight we got a big angry red message saying that that option wasn't available. Uh oh.

To most people this wouldn't have amounted to a blip on their stress radar, but to a person like me who is prone to irrational and crippling fits of anxiety, this was a disaster of biblical proportions. The average person would have shrugged and been all, "Well, I guess we'll just get our seats when we check in." Clearly I am not the average person, because this particular turn of events set off a series of internal dialogues, each more horrifying than the last.

"What if we get to the airport and they put us in different seats? What if our seats are on opposite parts of the plane? It's a freaking 747! And it's a sixteen hour flight! What if I'm stuck next to someone who won't shut up and let me sleep? I'll be jetlagged as hell when we arrive as it is, I can't make it worse by not sleeping on the flight! Oh, wait a second... it's an international flight and that means FREE WINE!!! After I pound down a couple glasses of vino it wouldn't matter if I was sitting next to Bill "Assface" O'Reilly. I'd just go to sleep and I probably wouldn't even punch him in the face. Now that's mellow."

Oh come on. You know you can't drink without wanting to fire up a steamer. There's no way you'd be able to down enough wine to make you sleep in the face of such discomfort without wanting a cigarette. And have you forgotten? Sixteen freaking hours. You are going to go out of your gourd. Just face it now. You're going to be sitting by yourself in the corner of the plane, surrounded by screaming kids and people who keep trying to tell you about their grandchildren and what they're going to do every minute of their cruise to Sardinia and how much they love living in Miami this time of year, and you're just going to have to sit there and take it.

"Surely there's a way around it. I mean, would anyone really notice if I smoked a quick one in the lavatory?"

Haven't you heard all the speechifying about how tampering with a smoke alarm is a federal offense?

"Oh, they squeeze that in between the tutorial on how to operate a seat belt and the instructional video demonstrating how you can turn your seat cushion into a flotation device. Nobody pays attention to that anymore."

Maybe not, but I doubt the air marshals would be amused if they had to break into the bathroom only to find your dumb ass puffing away on a cigarette surrounded by the shattered remains of smoke alarm at your feet. If they're confiscating disposable lighters and hair gel, they'd probably shoot down the damn plane if a fool like you got hold of the electrical system.

"But it would kind of be the airline's fault for not letting reserve my freaking seats in the first place, wouldn't it?"

Uh, no. But nice try, Whiney McBlamerson.

"Shut up, internal me."

So, for the next week I'll be thinking about how the inability to reserve my airline seat in advance will set off a chain of events culminating in the fiery deaths of hundreds of people.

And people wonder why I drink.

Well On My Way To Crazy Cat Lady

Things have been rather boring in Sparkles Plenty Land, but I didn't want my three readers to think that I've been neglecting my duties. I regret that I have no stories of bugs biting me on the ass or me getting drunk and falling down stairs, but bear with me because it's only a matter of time before those things happen.

In pseudo-exciting news, Gloria The Cat is now a part of the Sparkles family. I'm not sure how it happened, because I was damn determined that I would never be A Cat Person. But somehow she wore me down and now she's one of Us. She's quite lovely and has a wonderful personality, but I think I reached my breaking point when I went to the pet store to buy a carrier to take her to the vet so she could get her shots and be scheduled for a spaying. In a moment of stupefying weakness, I decided to browse the feline fashion accessories. I found a pink collar with a pink plaid bow and a little pink bell, and naturally I had to buy it for Gloria. My heart isn't made of stone, people! Anyway, I came home, put the collar on her, and almost passed out from the cuteness. I knew then that I was a goner.

She's been with us ever since, and even when she's walking across my face at 5am in order to get to her favorite spot on the bed I feel warm and happy inside. My heart skips a little when I feel her warm breath on my ear and hear her loud diesel engine purr. And when I think about how she has a warm place to sleep now instead of living outside in the cold foraging for food, I know we made the right choice. Even if cleaning out that litter box is a total bitch.

Embarrassing Confessions: #188

I like to eat toothpaste.

When I was a kid I always swallowed what was in my mouth (dirty!) after brushing my teeth. Once I was old enough to read I discovered that the ingestion of toothpaste was hazardous to my health. After the kind folks at Proctor and Gamble informed me that I had been poisoning myself on a nightly basis I spent many nights anxiously clutching my stuffed snake Periwinkle, convinced I was going to die of excessive fluoridation. What a way to go. "Sure she had nice teeth, but the fool was eating toothpaste. Good riddance!"

I no longer swallow the post-brushing toothpaste because I am a grownup. But sometimes I'll squirt some on my finger and "chew" on it for a while. Old habits die hard, I guess.

I don't know why I decided to share that, but you are welcome.

There's No Fringe In Boxing

A few days ago I flounced into the living room and discovered The Mister watching a boxing match on television. Because I consider boxing to be little more than a couple men trying to punch each other in the face while hopping around in a satiny square, I was less than enthused. Now, I realize there's more to the sport than what I see, because if it were just a couple random people putting on gloves and getting into bitchfights, and being paid millions of dollars to do so, every bonehead in America would be getting in on the action. I know there's timing and jabbing and shucking and jiving and God only knows what else, but to me it's still just a couple of dudes wearing some fancy shorts and puffy gloves jumping around and swinging their arms trying to see who can get the other bloody first.

However, I am incapable of watching a competitive activity without selecting a side to cheer for. I could be watching Canadian transsexual bikini logrolling; it doesn't matter. I am compelled to cheer for somebody, no matter how disinterested I may be in the contest itself. So when I saw the boxing on television I had to determine who was going to be the lucky recipient of my goodwill. There was no clear underdog in this fight, so I had to pull out the heavy artillery: Their outfits. One of the boxers was wearing rather nondescript trunks. They were tan and black with the words "2 pound" on the waistband. Eh, not spectacular, but I could accept it. But when I laid my eyes on the other fool in the ring my choice was clear. His trunks were bright green with gaudy tangerine fringe dangling around the waist and down the side of each leg. As if that weren't enough of an affront to athletic fashion sensibilities, there were tassles. Tassles, people. His trunks looked just like the drapes my parents had in their bedroom that matched the orange shag carpet. In 1977.

My choice was clear. I announced to my husband that I was cheering for 2 Pound.

"Which one is he?"

"The one who isn't dressed like the goddamn New Years Eve buffet table at a Bangkok whorehouse."