planes, pools, and fake dough

It's been a while.

I've been doing stuff.

Going places.

Seeing the sites.

Watching things.

Laundering clothes.

Walking on a treadmill.

And playing with my new Memory Mixer.  (Which is way better than regular scrapbooking.  I actually look forward to doing it, whereas, I'd rather give blood than do real-life scrapbooking.)

I have much to write about.  But I'm not going to do it all at once...cuz that would be a long, annoying post and would take me 3 hours to write.

First, let me take you to Arizona.  Which is where I went a few weeks ago.

Via plane.  Wretched, wretched plane.

It was one of the only times I've ever flown.  I flew 11 year ago with my family when they moved to Utah...and then I flew back to Phoenix 3 days later.  Neither times bothered me.  I thought it was a good time.  I was naive, single, and childless.  So, if the plane crashed and I died...no big loss.  Right?

But this time around, all of the above is different.  Terrorists had roamed the skies.  I'm married.  And I have a kid.

So, getting on an airplane now was a little frightening.  There's something very unnatural about hurling  through the air at 8 million miles an hour, 8 million feet above the ground.  (Note the embellishment for dramatic affect.)  You have absolutely no control over your fate.  It's all in the hands of a pilot, who may or may not be intoxicated.

Boarding began and we got on the plane without incident.  So far, so good.  Piece of cake.

I chose a wing-side seat.  Thought it would be...fun.  (FYI, it wasn't.)

Seat-belts, check.  Barf-bags, check.  Air masks, check.  Life jacket, check.  Emergency exits, check.  

Then the taxiing began.

And so did the panic and anxiety.

The explosion scene from Final Destination came into my head and I suddenly wished I hadn't decided to take a night-time flight.  I thought, "I wonder what would happen if I stood up and screamed that the plane was going to explode...?  Just how in trouble would I be?"  

Then we lifted off.  It felt like my brain was leaking down into my stomach.

I kept imaging parts of the wing flying off or bursting into flames.  (Living in my head is not always pretty.) 

I tried to concentrate on my book, (Rachel and Leah, by Orson Scott Card...good book...good series)...

...but then the plane would hit turbulence and I just knew we were this close to plummeting to the ground.

Seriously.

I thought about my house and my green walls and how I would miss them.  And then I hoped that after my tragic death, Steve wouldn't paint them a different color and that he'd never remarry.

And then I tried focusing back on my book...

The flight attendant came by and asked if we wanted a drink.    

"Yes, a nice Jose Cuervo, please.  Oh wait, I don't drink..." 

It was then I wished tequila wasn't frowned upon so I could be nice and numb.

"No, thanks," I said politely. 

"And leave me the crap alone so I can focus on my panic attack, please!"

All the while we ascended and hit bumps and ascended some more and hit more bumps.

Every muscle I had was as tense as could be and my shoulder start to hurt.

Lily, of course, was oblivious to any impending doom that awaited us and she sat there reading books during the whole flight.  Thank goodness.

The annoying flight attendant came by again and asked if we wanted peanuts or pretzels.

"And how am I supposed to eat peanuts or pretzels without a drink!  And I didn't want a drink...so figure it out Sherlock!"

I'm not a very nice person when I'm flying.

"No, thanks," I said again politely.

The book wasn't keeping my attention, so then I pretended to read while I eavesdropped on the people behind us...an early-twenty-something girl and an early-twenty-something boy.

He was a freshly returned missionary.  And she was single.  They didn't know each other...but when you're single and Mormon, EVERYONE is your potential soul-mate.

It was after 10 minutes of their embarrassing getting-to-know-each-other-chit-chat that I decided I was very glad not to be an early-twenty-something single person again.

Then she dosed off and he got on his preppy laptop.  And I was alone with my panic again.

Back to the book.

And then, the pilot came on.  I still have no idea what he said.  I heard something about descending and the weather in Phoenix.

"Ah, yes!!  Almost over!"

Landing is a horrible experience.

It feels like when you're in a car, going 150 miles an hour and you have exactly 2.5 seconds to stop before you die...you know the little heart attack you get and you laugh nervously like, "Heh.  Heh.  That was really fun.  We almost crashed!  Let's do it again..."

That's what landing was like...minus the nervous giggle and thinking it was fun.

I finally relaxed when the plane came to a stop.

But then I kept thinking, "This thing could still explode."

Tensed up again.

We stepped into the airport from the little ramp and still kept thinking, "A plane could crash into this airport and IT would explode."

Then we walked down to the baggage and saw my friend, Casey, and forgot all about explosions.

The end and good riddance.

I spent the next week and a day in Mesa and Queen Creek with Casey.

It wasn't as arm-pitty as I remember.  The weather was fair--though still pretty warm.  I had a really good time.

We swam and recreated and watched chic shows.

Thank you to my dear hostess, Casey, and for all her generosity...

...and for her introduction to Nestle's mini cookie dough.

Yum.