Warning contents may offend

I was off on my first overseas holiday.  I had seen the sights of South Australia, Queensland and more importantly and more excitingly Tasmania, and although the tempting apple isle with its one and only Big W store was calling my name I took the risk and headed off to Thailand for Sun, Temples, Shopping and well more Shopping.

But before the all mighty shopping adventure that I had planned, I first had to survive the 9 hour flight.  The first 5 hours were rather good, we were flying Jetstar el cheapo and had managed to book ahead the inflight entertainment package so could watch some movies.  I ordered me some food and set in to watch a few movies.  It was a novelty for the first few hours.

Now I should put in a disclosure that I get extremely motion sick.  When I was little I wasn’t allowed to go on swings because I would end up heaving my guts up and then be out sick for a day or two.  Flying … well … that’s just one big fucking swing in the motion sickness world except there is no escape.  No falling off. 

In my 26 years I had gotten better, I found some tablets that worked and could fly domestically under a doped up bliss randomly drooling without knowing.  In my mind, I could fly to Tassie then I could fly to Thailand.  So I popped my pills, and let the drooling begin.

5 hours into the trip .. which I should point out were spent surrounded by screaming babies, I started to feel a little off.  You see … as this was my first long haul flight, I neglected to realise that I would need to retake my tablets after 4 hours.

It was not pretty, the next 3 hours were spent in a mixture of either vomiting and sleeping the whole time sweating up a storm.  The poor passengers, if I wasn’t heaving up my guts then there was a baby screaming.

I somehow survived making it to Thailand, however the ordeal was not over yet.  I still had to make it off the plane and through customs to get my bag.

My body went into autopilot while my brain was forcefully trying to get my speech functioning to happen and request someone to kill me, someone to put me out of my misery.  But all it could muster was a grunting and groaning sound saying something that resembled the word die.  I grab some extra spew bags and stumble my way out of the plane ignoring the glares of my fellow passengers, because not only did I give them a symphony of regurgitation, but I also completely and utterly honked.  I smelt so bad that I am sure there were fume lines radiating out of my body like they do in the cartoon for pepe la pew.

I make it off the plane and rejoice that they have travelators and I wont have to walk the whole length of the airport.  At each travelator I slump onto the railing pleading that it will somehow snag me and pull me through the edge at the end in a bloody death, but instead I trip and stumble and make my way off clutching my spew bags and line up in the cue for customs. 

I sigh a quiet sigh of relief that there is a pole that I can lean myself against as I wait at the cue but then the moment passes as I fill yet another spew bag.  Where its all coming from is beyond me, and why there are no bins anywhere in sight is also beyond me.  Holding a full bag is dangerous as my hands are all sweaty and my grip isn’t the best and my co-ordination was lost a few hours ago on the plane so I was living in fear that I would ether just drop the bag or tip it all over the front of myself, which well .. would not have matter as mentioned earlier on, I already honked!

I hand over my passport and try to stand straight and look into the camera thingy.  Sweat drips of my face and one eye is really struggling to stay open but I somehow manage to look semi human and I am allowed through .. still clutching my damn sick bags.  I look ahead and see a bench near the baggage carousels.  Excellent, maybe I can lie down on it and slowly die while we wait for our baggage to come in.  I stumble my way towards it and I am quickly stopped by a customs lady.

Her – whats in the bag

Me – *one eye closed and hunched over like the hunchback of Notre dame* huh?

Her – whats in the bag, let me see

Me - *realising she means my spew bag* huh?

Her - *reaches for the bag* whats in your bag

Me – Its spew, I was sick *clutches bag tightly and slightly looses my balance*

Her – let me see

I mean seriously … I honked, I could barely function and I wouldn’t be surprised if I even had remnants of spew on my face and in my hair … im clutching a spew bag … don’t need to be Einstein to work out what it is filled with

Me - *passes bag*

Her - *opens bag and discovers its spew and quickly closes it giving me the filthiest of looks before walking off to dump it in the bin*

Im left standing there amused that someone after being told that its spew decided to look for themselves only to then give me the death stare for being right, as if I forced her to look.  See look here, here is some bile, here is a carrot chunk, and this bit here .. well im sure that’s some of my stomach lining.  Want me to sign the bag for you???

Seriously!

I somehow managed to make it out of the airport alive much to my bitter pleadings for imminent death, and also without further spew checks .. or worse as I feared was coming .. drug checks.

The greatest lie never sold

Back in the good ol days … (don’t ya love to say that!) when I was young and crazy with wild curly hair, I used to believe my mother that when I ate sugar it made my cheeks go bright red.  How was I to know that my mother used this as a con to lead me into telling her the truth about eating lollies.

Ma – Amy what have you been eating?

Me – Nothing *smiles sweetly* a banana

Ma – Your cheeks are bright red, you have had sugar, what have you been eating?

Me - *feeling busted by those damn red cheeks* umm a chocolate biscuit

It led to the point that I would run around and around the backyard to get my whole face bright red before coming inside to face my mother hoping that a hot and bothered red face would hide the fact that I had those damn red sugar alerting cheeks.

One afternoon I had been nagging for something to eat, it was rather close to dinner time so I kept being denied.  After then 10^th time of being told no I had a bright idea to ask if I can go play next door, to which I was reluctantly allowed to go as long as I was back when hollered at for dinner.

See, the bright idea of mine was that next door was our elderly neighbours, and I couldn’t ever go a visit to them without getting a glass of Milo, and Milo was chocolaty goodness that we were not allowed at home.  Besides the Milo, I actually really enjoyed hanging out next door, I could play with the cats, get chased by the ducks in the back yard that often bit the back of my legs and made me cry, wash the dog, sing and dance and perform for Sylvia who doted on me as all her children were over 15 years older than me, and besides, I was cute dammit.  In my eyes everyone but my brother and sister wanted my company … but in saying all that … it was the Milo that got me visiting every day.

So off I toddled next door with strict instructions not to eat anything, and that my cheeks would be checked when I got back.

I played with the cat, I fed it a months supply of dry food, I sat up on the bar stool swinging my legs about singing my all time favourite song, Gloria ( I didn’t know any words other than Gloria so it involved singing over and over again GLORIA, GLORIA, GLORIA) and then I was offered a glass of Milo.  Jackpot.  That was what I came for. 

Surely 1 glass of milo would not make my cheeks red.  It was worth the chance.

I devoured that glass like no bodies business.  Best way to have a milo is to mix it all in and then add some more so you have crunchy bits on top. 

It was nearly dinner time so I said my goodbyes and ran out the back door to head on home making sure I was running in the hope that if I was seen running back then that might explain the red cheeks. 

Everyone was sitting in the lounge room and started laughing at me when I came in.

In my mind I looked cute and pretty and pristine.

Infact I looked something like this.

Ma – what have you been eating?

Me – nothing *smiles sweetly*

I then catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window

Me – I fell in the dirt, I tripped on the back step and got dirt all over my face

Ma – and you managed to only get dirt all over your face?  No where else?

Me – no I brushed it off

Thinking that I had got away with it, maybe the milo disguised as dirt were hiding my red cheeks.  Yes that’s it .. that’s the key, smear dirt on my cheeks from now on.

My brother – then why do you smell like chocolate

Me *uh oh* ahhhhhh

Ma – sure it was milo?  Looks like milo all over your face

Me - *UH OH* ahhh no, no its dirt

I should have stoped there … but I was determined to pull it off.  So I re-enacted how I fell down the steps, by closing the sliding door and not looking.  I went into such detail, the more I carried on the more I felt I had to keep going.  I finish my re-enactment, beaming with pride.  Yep .. im going to be the next Shirley temple.

That’s when the laughter started… im not sure if its actually ever stopped!

Smarties ... not what they used to be

I need to come up with some more clever ways of looking like I am working ... but not actually working at all.

Idea #1 Create a Blog

Idea #2 Spend time pondering the day away what to blog about

Idea #3 Type, Tpye, Type that blog away! And in doing so look busy typing important stuffs.

See .. they dont pay just for my good looks.

I needed inspiration to start typing my first blog entry.  Name of the blog - easy! Web address name ... easy!  Blog content - not so easy.  So I toddled off down to get me some inspiration in the form of smarties.  Good ol colourful buttons of chocolate.  However, im a little disturbed by their colouring.  I remember smarties being all bright and colourful and pretty.  Now they are really really bland.

See how POO they look now??!!!  How on earth are you meant to lick a smartie and smear it on your lips to have lipstick if the colours are all dull and poo like!