My vacation is officially over. This is evidenced by the Final Poop of Vacation. You know the one... you've been home a day or two, finally shaken the jet-lag, gotten back to work or school or selling drugs to kids, the normal routine. You're still pulling stuff out of your suitcase to use or wear, because you packed all the shit you look good in for the trip. You're going to wear it, dirty or not because that's a helluva lot easier than matching clothes from your closet or dresser, both of which may as well belong to someone else because you simply don't remember where anything is. And you wouldn't recognize it if you did. Why? Because you've been on VACATION.
So you wake up one morning, feelin' fine. You blink wearily at the photos hanging in their pleasant frames on the wall. You recognize one of them as your mother. Good! It's all coming back. You swing your feet to the floor, and make a bee-line for the toilet. It's the morning piss. Nothing to it. You realize, mid-tinkle, that the bathroom is blue. You even remember painting it that color! Good!! You're really re-connecting to life before vacation now! The opportunity to revel in your success is short-lived however, for even as you feel the dregs of clown tears dribbling from your urethra, you feel it. That persistent, growing pressure. That sweet, unyielding and yet ominous urge... that's right... The turtle's poking his head out.
You know immediately that this is no ordinary anchor-dropping. This is the final rally of the vacation. This carnal tube of impacted evil represents your last moments of bliss and freedom. Smell that? Unmistakeably airport peanuts and ersatz "cinnamon" cookies. And that burning? Surely it's the unrequited swan-song of the special salsa that you used on your salmon at the wedding reception. What's this? Ooohh! Yikes! Roughage. Now what... ahh. Yes, of course. The "Vegan sloppy-joe." Sweet memories.
It isn't long before you sigh in relief and maybe a little regret (why did I drink so many Mango Madness Mimosas at the wedding?), and give one last high-pressure zap of pee onto Mount Movement. You wipe, maybe even spitting on the tissue a little for good measure, and stand. It is done. It is with respect you flush this, the last vestige of vacation. You limp away, somehow better for it. And at least three fucking pounds lighter.
So my trip to Oregon is over, but that doesn't mean that the memories have faded! Burning ass-hole aside, I have some great reminders of all the fun that was to be had. And some of the shit that I will literally spend the rest of my natural life trying to forget.
I present at this time, an Oregon panoply.
Scene #1: Honey... I'm late.
Unfortunately, this does not refer to an unwanted pregnancy. This refers to the incident of my fine self, Significant Other in tow, arriving at the airport after the divine forces that give the ticket-jockeys at United Airlines their innate sense of superiority and power, decided to close boarding for our plane at some arbitrary time at least 20 minutes before the plane was scheduled to leave. This was especially innervating with memories of the momentous occasion of the Missed Flight of January 2010 still giving me nightmares. Naturally, within seconds of being informed our "gate was closed," I reacted in the most mature, responsible way I could. I balled my hands into fists and started screaming at the top of my lungs "I HATE THIS I REALLY REALLY HATE THIS WHY DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH I HATE THIS??!!"
Sig.Oth.: "It's okay."
Me:"NO IT'S NOT OKAY!!! HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND I'D RATHER BE DEAD THAN MISS A PLANE?!"
Sig.Oth.:"..."
In my defense, the last time we missed a plane, I ended up living some kind of David Lynch dream-sequence alternate reality, where I spent hours sitting numbly staring into space and my dad (who voluntarily avoids eye-contact with me.)showed up in an electric-blue compact car to drop me and the Sig.Oth. off at his parent's house.I didn't know what was going to happen, but I knew that I didn't want THAT.
Epilogue: We got on the next flight, and my dad didn't show up even once.
Scene #2: Whore-baths aren't just for hookers and camping trips!
The Atlanta airport could have been made entirely out of cat food, and I would have been happy to see it, so relieved was I to be on-track with the travel plans after the Missed Flight of June 2010 still pretty damn fresh in my mind. And it was a charming place, full of ominous warnings regarding our nation's security and jazzy, 1980's style signs that said stuff like "You're in GEORGIA!" and "It's Hot in Hot-lanta!" They all had the same psuedo-spray paint script in a rainbow of violent colors. The only place this shit would have looked natural is spread across the front of Richard Simmons' cut-off tank top.
Anyway, I am an opportunistic urinater, so the liberation from plane #1 meant a chance to go #1 before the final leg of our trip that day. The Sig.Oth., reading my mind and anticipating my needs offered to babysit my suitcase while I took a leak. The pissing went just fine, especially considering the amount of coffee I'd managed to drink on the first plane. The trouble began, as it so often does, when I left the stall. There, before the trough of sinks and mirrors, stood a black woman in full-church garb, with her skirt bunched under her armpits, a crumpled and sweaty handful of wet paper towels in her hand, washing her cooter. The sink was at the ready, somehow running continuously even though they are designed by NASA and Communist sympathizers to not dispense more than two single drops of water at a time, and only then if you know the correct pass-code. She had a face like a cartoon dog, and the kind of strong, gnarled hands that one easily imagines wrapped around the neck of an enemy or making sweet-grass baskets. Her hat and dress were dark navy blue. There she stood, legs akimbo, knees bent, black and blue all over like a giant, cooter-washing anthropomorphic bruise. It was incredible. She hummed as she wiped, which was both soothing and extremely disturbing. I didn't recognize the song, but I like to think that it was "Onward Christian Soldiers" or the theme to "The Black Hole."
Next: More "Scenes from Portland!" And these will actually be from Portland!
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