Friday, April 16, 2010

The test to any relationship.....

Barf. Puke. Whatever you like to call it.~~ Disclaimer: if you have a weak stomach, just stop reading. I don't want to be responsible for this post ruining your lunch.~~

Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, talking about the one thing that causes most of us a lot of fear. Or just plain discomfort. I am not a fan of puking. I am not a fan of nausea, or the stomach aches that go along with both. I can think of a number of things that I would rather "have" or "do" than puke. So, now that we understand my pure hate for the act, let me explain the point of such a grotesque post.

Just a few short weeks ago my husband and I left on vacation with my parents. We were flying to Atlanta from Michigan and then from Atlanta to San Juan. To make a treacherous story much shorter: I hate flying as well. Almost as much as I hate puke. But, nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen next. Only a hour into my first flight did I receive the urgency to puke out everything my stomach held dear. So, while my father was taking his time finding a little white bag. Not sure why they make "puke holders" white. To make us feel more clean? Validated? Anyways, I decided to tackle my mother on her way out of the plane bathroom. Ironic. And you can imagine what happened next.

Flight #2. I am given an insane amount of Dramamine which is supposedly there to help with motion sickness. And if I haven't mentioned before: that is my problem. I board the second flight nothing short of delusional. But, delusion could not save me from the inevitable. Only twenty minutes into my second flight I pummel the women next to me in order to make it to the bathroom on time. Unfortunately, I was too late. While I struggled vehemently with the bathroom door...I was puking...and we all know that one's cheeks can only expand so far. It was a lost cause. I was panicked. Until I turned around to find my husband standing there and with a ease that made me look ridiculous, he opened the bathroom door. My hero.

Well, I won't tell you that the next three hours of that flight were enjoyable. Because, I would be lying. Probably the closest thing to torture I have ever experienced. My point in this post was not to gross everyone out...even though I'm sure some of you thought you were bold and continued reading after my disclaimer. But, to simply say that you know someone reallllly loves you when they are there to open that jammed bathroom door in an airplane when you are in a puking panic. You know that someone really loves you when they are willing to sacrifice most of their vacation to take care of the lame sick person.

Monday, April 12, 2010


Ok, I admit it. I have been one of those people. A "home hater", if you don't mind me saying. I have suffered dearly with the syndrome for awhile now. The place that I call "home" normally gets a thrashing from my tongue at least once a day. And if it is not verbalized I allow thoughts of revolt to play through my head.
Don't act like you have no idea of the type I speak of (technically writing of). From my own personal experience, I know myself to be unloyal to my home. Willing to betray it at a moments notice. I am constantly plotting and drawing maps of my escape. I have scoured the land in search of an appropriate distance from the place that I now reside. Yes, many elaborate measures have been taken to plan out the escape plan that I now deem as my own.
But, until I can become more diplomatic this does not stop me from commenting on "home" as if it were a dirty, filthy rag that remains attached to me at all times. I scoff at it. Poke fun. Come up with witty banters that I can share with other "home haters". Make up stories about the grass being greener on the other side.
What happened next, I have no explanation for. I have been honest about my feelings, until this point. I went away. I got on a plane and went far far away. And I remained that way for about 11 days. During this extended time crazy things began to happen. I would look at a map and feel twinges of anxiousness. I began to compare and contrast exotic locations to....home. And to my surprise, they were not winning or standing well in the contrast. I began missing things. Simple things. Things I normally made fun of. Routines that my husband and I lament on. Areas that had become common place and dull. I started to miss. And we all know that missing leads to this dull ache that one can not quite explain...but we are fully conscious that it is there. And it was there.
I'm not sure what to make of those eleven days as I softened towards the place I have bantered against. I'm not sure that much of the bantering has or will change as routine sets in. But, it left room for a pause. What is "home"? What does it really mean? What does it consist of? And I doubt "home" is the same for everyone. As cheesy as the old saying goes: "Home is where the heart is". I find some truth in that. When you are gone for a long time where is the one place that tugs at your sleeve? The one place that when you are sick you want to run back to. What place has become a comfort that you might not even recognize but you carry it around anyways? Home holds an element of consistency (as much as it can) and even the foulest hater of routine learns that home, in all of it's repetitive nonsense, becomes the double-edged sword that we can not fully escape.
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