The Worst Flight of My Life

Before I get started, let me just say that when you’re in a tube devoid of fresh air and ventilation at 35,000 feet, with a nose that rivals only a bloodhound or a pregnant woman, Bubble Yum is one of the most wretched scents in the world.

Not that I’d know or anything, Vivian. Yeah, I’m talking to you.

Image courtesy of

Image courtesy of

To be fair to the airline, the flight itself wasn’t actually that terrible. The flight attendants were nice, the captain didn’t crash or get us killed, and at no point did I have to discover whether those little oxygen masks actually have oxygen in them or not, even though they may not inflate. I even had a window seat, which at the time was my absolute favorite thing (it was a combination of boredom and motion sickness that led me to want the window, despite there not being a whole lot to look at during most of the flight. I’ve since changed my mind and determined the aisle seat in the first three rows, opposite the door side, are actually the best because you can get off that plane right quick.)

Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

The problem with the flight actually occurred before I even stepped on the plane, eating a quick dinner with my mother in a restaurant of the John Wayne airport, which has since gone out of business for what I can only imagine are obvious reasons. I ordered a blue cheese burger, and at the time it was really rad. It was good enough, in fact, that I determined I needed to take the rest with me on the plane to finish there. But I was tired, and there are some instances in which tired trumps beef, cheese, and bread (they’re rare, trust me), so I decided to slip into a quick airplane nap, though not before turning to my mother and saying “I want cranberry juice.” About a half hour later I awoke to, not surprisingly, cranberry juice on my pull-down tray, and I took one sip and suddenly realized I was going to be remarkably ill. And instantaneously.

Here’s the thing. I don’t do sick people things in front of strangers, and I especially don’t do them on airplanes, so the wait for one of the rear lavatories to become available was a particularly terrible one, during which I began to sweat profusely and probably freak the passengers sitting in the back of the plane out something fierce. You can indicate with hand gestures that you don’t intend on puking on them, but that generally doesn’t really appease them much.


Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

I won’t go into detail about this foray into food poisoning at 35,000 feet, but I will say the airplane lav is even smaller than you think when you’re using it like a normal person and not on your knees, I made about four visits to it during that not very long flight, I upset a few women in the PDX airport restroom outside the baggage claim, I made my dad feel sick on the way home, and I woke up a couple times that night just to finish what was only the worst evening I’d had in a very long time. It took me a couple of years before I could eat beef again.

The only thing I might fault the airline for was not letting me stay in the lav for the remainder of the flight after making it abundantly clear that one trip wasn’t going to be enough (particularly since there was a second one for people to use, so it’s not like my being there kept them from peeing or anything, and anyways, who wants to use a tiny bathroom after someone doing what I was doing? No one, that’s who. But despite all that logic, the flight attendant kept rapping on the door, telling me I had to get out.

We’re not friends, she and I.


Vertigo: A Love Story

Confession: This isn’t a love story at all, but I thought that was a nice sounding title.

As it turns out, the vertigo hasn’t gone away yet. This has made for an exciting week (remember, I got it on Friday), although I have yet to collapse, pass out, stumble into things, or ram the car into stuff (although it could be easily argued that my ramming the car into stuff wouldn’t be vertigo related at all). It’s like I’m walking on a trampoline and sitting on a waterbed. All the time.


For the most part I haven’t really been that concerned about it. I haven’t gone to the doctor, I don’t really feel as though I need to, and I’m still going out and doing things. It will really suck if I have a brain tumor. But as the week continued to pass on, I realized there was one large thing that should strike fear and terror into my heart: airplane trip to Oregon.

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Yeah, I’m going to Oregon tomorrow for ten days. I know you’re totally jealous. Unless, of course, you live in Oregon, in which case you understand why all my other readers should be jealous. Anyhow, the Oregon part doesn’t strike fear and terror (although the fact that I will have to return to … *sighs* … Utah is such a bummer). The airplane trip part does. There’s a fairly large part of me that’s concerned that, given my current state of feeling woozy while standing/sitting/laying down/walking/leaning, an airplane will suck.

Walgreen’s … I can’t get away from it: So we decided, to celebrate our nation’s independence, we’d hit up the grocery store for cereal and the drug store for — this being on the Internet will probably make Mom sad — an ear wax removal kit. And some generic Bonine.

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I mean, we got some fireworks in. Vertigo on the 3rd level balcony of an apartment complex is kind of fun and mostly horrifying. So not all is lost. But there’s something kind of really tragic about spending the 4th of July flushing out your spouse’s ear, watching a warm stream of water fill a bowl. With, you know, other stuff.

Before you get too grossed out: My ears are perfectly clean. Which is a little disappointing because I was hoping the vertigo would magically go away.

Before you read this, turn on “The Star Spangled Banner” in the background, softly, but increasing the volume a little bit at a time: So let’s take a minute to recognize this great country and how easy it is for us to drive our Asian designed cars to 24 hour drug stores (which do not, incidentally, have chopsticks. Totally disappointing.) and buy things like ear wax removal kits and flush out Husband’s ears for fun.

Yay Amercia!