So where is it written traveling's supposed to be fun? You want to go to another country (dimension, universe, whatever), you're gonna pay. And I don't mean just the extra $50 airlines now charge for each suitcase. I mean you're going to pay big time. And don't drink the Shiraz...It makes your throat red. Pass me a Valium, will you?
Okay, so I haven't blogged in a while. I had relatives visiting. Kids, who needed to be fed and entertained and brought hither and yon....taken to aquariums, and Empire State Buildings and plays like Wicked; they needed pizza, and several trips to Walmart's for chocolates and videos and Dove bars and anything with the name Twilight on it. But it was lots of fun, and I only had one kid throw up the whole time. And it wasn't even from my cooking.
So they've come and they've gone and they got back to Ireland safely. I consider the whole episode a success. Yey, Allia.
But hubby and I are not so lucky. It's our turn to visit and things aren't so easy anymore. Before we leave for the airport, I have to buy masks and hand sanitizers, and some disposable clothes (ones I can burn), so I don't bring home the other epidemic New York now has: bedbugs.
And while we try not to touch anyone, they will be touching us--perfect strangers--not only feeling us up for weapons, searching our toiletry bags (for over-the-limit bottles of shampoo) and inspecting our shoes for bombs, but also asking us to put our heads back, open wide, and say "ahh" to check for the pig virus. (I only pray they don't have those thermography machines...my luck I'd have a hot flash going through and be dragged off to a confinement room.)