I found out long ago (Ohhhhhhhhhhhh)
It's a long way down the holiday road (Ohhhhhhhhhhhh)
Tonight, Jeff, S. and I will embark on our very own National Lampoon's Asian Vacation, a pilgrimage to a dear friend's wedding in the Philippines.
Holiday roooooooo-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad
Holiday rooooooooooo-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!
I am already having stress poops over this. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean.
Because why
not take your longest-ever flight with a tiny person strapped to your lap who, unlike you, has not moved his bowels in three days? (Incidentally, does that count as an explosive? I'll have to check the TSA's website.)
But dudes. My eyes today are all glassy and wild, like Michelle Bachmann's when she tries to blame swine flu on Jimmy Carter, or Tyra's when she surprises the ANTM girls with a trip to a third-world "fashion capital."
Come to think about it, I
wish we were ANTM finalists right now--and not for the obvious reasons like getting to balance on stilts while dressed as racial stereotypes. No, it's for the travel perks. Instead of being on a
sixteen-hour flight to Hong Kong, followed by a two-and-a-half-hour flight to Cebu, followed by a ferry to a smaller island, all with an infant whose most recent learned skill is shrieking loudly for no reason and then trying to rip my nose off of my face--a trip that not even Steve Martin and John Candy could survive, as I got tired just typing out those hyphens--we would just take a quick, six-second airplane graphic across a neon laser map of indiscriminate continents, all on the CW's dime:
(Since I'm already having nightmares about flying with a five-month-old, rounding out the imaginary flight manifest are Carrot Top, Kimmy Gibler, drunk Nick Nolte, and Dana Carvey as
Norman Bates The Church Lady.)
I have stuffed my carry-on full of contingency plan supplies: four outfits for the baby, scented hazmat bags for soiled clothing, books, toys, tampons and extra underpants (HA, after fifteen months I think I qualify as a desert according to the U.S. Geological Survey, but I know Mother Nature would just looooove to prank me like that), food, Raffi and anti-spouse-kill meditation tracks on the iPod. The only thing missing is some duty-free booze and a pile of Us Weeklys that can double as emergency raft toilet paper, but that's what airport shopping is for.
OK, fine, maybe I'm being a little over-dramatic. I should focus on the positives, right? Like how, after this trip, I will fear nothing--not even
toilet rats. Or how Nolte is probably packing some potent sedatives.
It still wouldn't hurt to pray for us, though, as we (possibly literally) lose our shit over the Pacific. In return I promise not to send any smug vacation Tweets about how strong the daiquiris are at the swim-up bar. Deal?
Planes, Trains, Banes and Strains (and In-Flight Champagnes, Lest I Go Insanes)
