Don't Go Turning Minnows Into Whales

I am a bit homesick. I am also overdue for a post. I just returned from Nebraska where I was for a week visiting family and attending my cousins wedding. It was a beautiful affair. On my return trip, upon landing in Denver this is what I saw, a rare creature indeed.....

Travel Log

Denver Airport August 3^rd 2010

Sighted: None other than middle aged country-fried hot-mess (two t’s, or no?) sporting newly minted lubed-up cartoon shoulder chipmunk tattoo. Not believed to be feral, however deemed to be a rite-aid brand of cheeky creature, not resembling Alvin and his ilk, and therefore presumably the cheaper of the shoulder dwelling inkrodents.

Music: Meatloaf, note to self: must pray to the gods of sex, and rock, and drums. Also Mary J Blidge is beast. Onelove.

I do wish, however, that the flight attendant deemed it appropriate to ration my soda intake instead of bequeathing me the entire can. A window seat, though greatly envied by all of the non-window seat-sitters, does not lend itself to convenient access of the lavatory. Also my stature, though above average for most women (not outrageously so however) does not lend itself easily to the singular square-foot of airplane lavatories. In these instances, I would rather sit in one uncomfortable position for the duration of the flight than unfold my cramped limbs to crouch-walk up the aisle, to then refold myself accordion style into the unisex pee-in-the-sink-that-doubles-as-a-urinal closet, and then summon up the courage to expose my girlie parts to the dangerous element that is little more than a port-a-potty flying 30,000 feet in the air in a steel canister, not unlike a Pringles can with size comparable Barbie wheels. We humans are nothing but crunchy fried stackable potato waifs waiting for the popping and the fun non-stopping. Now if only I could get the Pringle guy’s face tattooed on my ass, my hot mess status could be instantly elevated.