Recently, I had a choice to make.
Mountains or flying.
I've flown before but it was years ago and it's simply not my favorite thing to do. But the alternative was making my kajillion'th trip through both the Smokies & Appalachians. And I'm terrified of heights, traffic, interstates, take offs and landings.
*le fuck* Rock and a hard place.
The reason for this choice & the reason for my long time away from all you fab bloggers?
Our family has moved from North Carolina to back home - Illinois. I either climbed into the UHaul or a Jet - and the hugeness of both modes of transporting my phat ass did not escape my notice.
So which did I choose? Flying. And here's the story:
Big Daddy: (two weeks before departure) "What time are you flying out?"
P. Mama: "10:30 a.m."
Big Daddy: (one week before departure) "What time are you flying out?"
P. Mama: (Um, didn't he already asking this?) "10:30 a.m."
Big Daddy: (6 days before departure) "What time are you flying out?"
P. Mama: (Is 41 too young to have fucking Alzheimers?) "10:30 a.m."
Big Daddy: (4 days before departure) "What time are you flying out, again?"
P. Mama: (Damnit, he DID have a stroke that night at McShitty's when he told me to shut up!) "10:30 a.m."
Big Daddy: (2 days before departure) "So what time does your flight leave?"
P. Mama: (He's doing this to irritate me. He has to be. Sonofabitch.) "10:30 a.m. cripes!"
Big Daddy: (The night before I fly out.) "What time do you fly out in the morning?"
P. Mama: (I'm going to staple the fucking flight itinerary to his forehead.) "10:30 a.m."
Big Daddy: "Well, I'll wake you up at 5 a.m. to get ready."
So, I sat there thinking about his time schedule for a minute.
P. Mama: "If that's supposed to be a smartass remark about how long it takes me to lay flat on the bed, suck in my stomach, say a prayer and then use a pliers to zip my jeans.. it's really shiteous of you and I'm hoping you enjoyed the last BJ I gave you because not only do I feel a month long headache coming on but suddenly, my jaw hurts too - like lockjaw bad - and also, I'm not doing anymore Kegel exercises because I believe that having buff vagina muscles is profane when the rest of my body is a walking advertisement for Waffle House."
Big Daddy: "I wonder if Icy-Hot would work on a sore jaw."
P. Mama: "No."
So, the next morning he wakes me up at 5 a.m. I was so tired from not getting much sleep because of nerves, I didn't even fight it. Just showered, dressed (in lounge pants) and off we went. About half an hour from the airport, he stops at McDonald's for breakfast. We're sitting inside, eating breakfast (I advise the Steak, Egg & Cheese bagle) when he actually says to me:
Big Daddy: "What time does your flight leave?"
I am not even shitting y'all.
P. Mama: (I would stab him with this spork but the F'n thing would break.) "10:30 a.m."
Big Daddy: "Why did you tell me 9:30 a.m. then - you're going to be way too early."
P. Mama: (Dear baby Jesus, please stop me from jumping my fat ass across this table to choke him out - please help me to keep reminding myself that he's a good man that gives me his check every week - please press the Almighty Mute Button so that I don't spew obscenities that involve a lot of F-words at him - please help my jaw to quit hanging so this yummy McD's bagle quits falling out of my gaping mouth. All my love, Amen.)
So there ya have the first of many 'Phat Mama Goes Home' stories. I missed y'all and look forward to catching up on blogs and finishing this saga for everyone!
...and in the end
5 years ago