Vacation Mode, Deactivate

Bali, Indonesia (and the US of A)

What would you do…

If you were trapped in a window seat on a 13-hour transpacific flight, and you needed to use the restroom?

but, sam, i’ve been holding it for 3 hours already

The guy next to you is passed out hard, showing zero signs of life since takeoff; you’ve got a full bladder from guzzling all those mini bottles of water red wine; and you’re stuck.  Trapped like a rat.

Having reached that inevitable, all-too-critical point of no return:

You need to make a decision and you need to make it now.

Do you:

1. Gently shake the upper arm area of the sleeping giant in the aisle seat, increasing pressure applied in 10-second intervals until he wakes up
2. Whisper sweet nothings into his inner ear canal, increasing volume in 10-second intervals until you end up politely screaming ‘EXCUSE ME SIR’ in his face
3. Suck in your gut, make yourself skinny, and slither past him in a promising ground game
4. Take to the air and leap over his seat, using ballet skills you never learned when you were younger
5. Push your call button to make the poor flight attendant do your bidding for you (like the coward you are)
6. Pee your pants (slowly at first, then unleashing the kraken’s flood gates in total despair & embarrassment)
7. Pee your pants triumphantly (same outcome as option 6, but with a can-do attitude and total acceptance)

The correct answer is #4. Cirque du Soleil that shit.

After trying (unsuccessfully) to vibrate the upper arm of that BEAR of a man… and refusing to raise my voice higher than a stern whisper… I put my head on a swivel, pointed my toes, extended one leg paaaast his face, and Catherine Zeta Jones’d my way out of that Entrapment predicament.

no no, the OTHER movie. the one with the laser beams.

Not to bore you but getting back INTO my seat was the hard part.  My first foray into the world of Mission Impossible, I quickly came to terms with the fact that covert operations might not be a viable career path going forward.  Sure, I have go-go-gadget daddy long legs and a surgeon-like precision that’s enviable, but one critical moment during the op gave me serious doubts as to whether the C.I.A. would ever really value my skillset.

You see, I was mid-straddle of a motionless and defenseless man, hovering above him, frozen in a sumo warrior position with my crotch in his face and my feet on both arm rests and…… I couldn’t…… contain myself.  A smirk turned into a smile turned into an oh shit, Taylor, lock it up.  LOCK IT UP!

The fate of the world was in my hands… and it was all a little too amusing.

Adrenaline buzzing through my body.  My mind on overdrive with all these silly rhymey poems flooding in.

Did I activate my many years of super spy training?  No, but

There once was a girl on a plane,

Whose bladder was ready to make it rain,

Trapped by the window,

Sleeping giant akimbo,

She flew the coop like Andy Dufrane.

He sleeps unknowing,

That his face will become a,

Hurdle for my crotch.

Back on the road after a [Wet Hot] American Summer, I landed in Bali after 3 planes, 48 hours, and a whole lotta urine poems.  

Since my body didn’t know where the heck it was or what time it was supposed to be, I figured starting my first full day in Bali at 1:30am was a no brainer.  (Bonus that my first full day was ALSO my 26^th birthday.  Plus a few years who’s counting.)

I signed up for a sunrise volcano hike on Mount Batur, an active volcano that last erupted in 2000.  Paired with 4 random Aussie gals that served as their own giggle parade, we laughed, we hiked, we cooked our own breakfast with volcanic steam, and we enjoyed the very romantic views as one of them kept superzooming the rising sun with 1970s porn music.

Icing on the birthday cake volcanic eggs, we stopped at a coffee plantation and a hot spring on our way back to town.  Birthday complete.  Raging success.  Where’s my bed?

birthday views after a 2.5 hour hike in the dark

steam with a side ‘a banana sammies

hot spring into fall

Oh, how delicious it is to be back on the road.  To have some structure and stability in my daily life, a normal routine.  It’s funny that, in the past 2 years, coming home feels more like vacation.  Calories don’t count, exercise doesn’t matter, all I do is win win win no matter what what what hang out, have fun, eat chili dogs, and watch HBO miniseries about Chernobyl.

It’s only when I travel that I get out of vacation mode and into the daily grind.  For example, here in Bali, I’m working an average of 11 hours per day for a company called Plastic Bank.  Their mission (which I chose to accept because of my extensive background in covert ops and UTIs), is removing plastic waste from the environment while lifting people out of poverty.  Due to the workload and long hours, I haven’t actually seen much of Bali despite living here for over a month.

i know i know, close your mouth

But don’t cry for me, Indonesia.  This isn’t a sad story.  I’ll get to all the views and the beaches and the Instagram celebrity hangouts, don’t you worry.  But for now, I’m focused on making whatever positive impact I can make with this environmental company, aaaaaand on not falling or crashing or dying on my motorbike.

Oh, my GOSH to be back on a moped in Asia.  I’ve missed it so.

Motorbikes zipping into the street from alleyways.  Cars backing up right into traffic.  Lanes don’t exist; red lights don’t matter; and if you’re not carrying 80 cartons of eggs or a birdcage in a bag, are you really even driving?

don’t forget, we need to pick up the kids at 6

But I digress.  Or maybe I never had a point.  Either way, before I forget and before we adjourn for the day, can we puh-lease talk about my month-long road trip through America’s heartland this summer?  Or at least the 80-year-old Chilean man who sat next to me on my flight home from South America?  Who kept shaking me awake to point things out out the window?

ROAD TRIP 2019. USA Nostalgia Tour.

How ’bout a quick picture slideshow, then we’re done for the day? Great. Let’s do this.

First things first.

My very cheerful, very excited, ride-or-die, roach-infested welcome brigade at O’Hare Airport.

Oh, you shouldn’t have! Really. I have nightmares.

Straight to Michigan for a faaaabulous wedding, I went a little too hard on the dance floor on the all-you-can-eat wedding cake buffet.

Dare I say the BEST wedding cake buffet I’ve ever tasted.

Then it was time to HIT THE ROAD, so my Mom and I hopped in the ‘ole Subaru in search of Roadside Americana and the world’s largest mailbox. And crochet hook. And wind chimes, golf tee, pitchfork, easel, and rocking chair. Oh! And that 20,000 pound ball of sistal twine.

Abridged version: we saw a lotta big shit. It was amazing. Dream come true.

97 degree humidity and flat as a pancake, the Midwest was an endless stream of bars, churches, and slot casinos. They DO have Mattress Mary’s, Artichoke Annie’s, and the illustrious Waldorf Motel, though. And billboards boasting ‘Dang Great!’ and ‘This way to the childhood home of Jerry Moran!’ (Who the heck is Jerry Moran?)

Just past Kansas City, we detoured for something that’s been sitting at the top of my bucket list for 10+ years.

Leila’s Hair Museum in Independence, MO. (Pause for dramatic effect.)

Joined by a pack of 85-year-old biddies, my Mom and I geeked out over an 800-piece collection of human hair wreaths. On the one hand, sure – two rooms full of ‘human hair art’ sounds a little unsettling but bear with me. With hair from up to 150 different family members per wreath, constructed mainly in the Victorian age, this collection is HISTORY. It’s genealogy. It’s the DNA of our forefathers ladies in waiting who had nothing better to do.

Plus, Leila (the nutty old owner) told us about Ozzy Osborne’s visit to the museum last summer. After following Ozzy around with scissors (very un-stealthily) during the tour… she proceeded to SNIP A LOCK OF HIS HAIR WHILE HE WAS LOOKING STRAIGHT AT HER. Neither of them said a word and the tour continued. WHAT. Oh my gosh, how bizarre I love it.

On cloud nine, nothing could bring us down after that museum.

An hour later, my car broke down. Cool.

Turns out when the mechanic forgets to put the oil cap back on after your pre-road trip tune up, it’s a quick 1-2-3 oil geyser, engine failure, totaled car situation. Cue 48 hours of sobbing and sympathy donuts.

But the show must go on. Gorges to see, rocks to buy, pint-size college friends waiting at the Denver Airport.

We’re not gonna let a little catastrophe ruin star-spangled Americana, are we!? #enterprise #theypickyouup

For leg #2, the new name of the game was short-term memory loss NATIONAL & STATE PARKS. And Ms. Meaghan O’Connor.

My main squeeze, Meggie, and I hit Garden of the Gods, National Sand Dunes, Slide Rock (for the natural water slides), Petrified Forest, the Royal Gorge, the Rio Grande, and of course, the mega million jackpot, crème de la crème, trail as old as time – the Grand Canyon.

Falling isn’t a choice. It’s a way of life. And I was born this way.

Outraged at all the people hopping over barricades at the Grand Canyon (to get that perfect shot), Meggie and I also accepted posing & prop defeat at the hands of clearly-superior tourists.

Giant teepees, gas tank museums, lavender farms, wigwam motels, turquoise trails, roadside origami, Santa Fe, Sedona, and baby cow traffic jams. We camped; we hiked; we ate romantic dinners for 2 in Walmart parking lots; and we spooned for warmth, afraid to leave our tent for fear of animal attack or our pee streams turning into icicles and tethering us to the ground.

Oh, and the ‘new’ rental car needed an oil change and 2 new tires. WHAT. On earth.

After Meggie left, things got weird. I bought a bright red power suit from Goodwill; I started talking to myself in various accents; and I oscillated between true crime podcasts and the song PBNJ from Patti Cake$ on repeat.

Thank you to all my friends who saved me from a psychotic break during the third, and final, leg of my road trip. To Brock-o-lee, Debbie, Kathleen, Ash & Jake, and Rye & Kel…… I don’t know what would have happened if you didn’t break bread (and pizza and tacos and bloodies) with me.

And to all the pizza and tacos and bloodies, I salute you as well.

There you have it!

I raced home for the Chicago Pride Parade because a.) it’s my favorite day of the year and b.) when I was in Cali, I discovered Rye was the proud owner of the SAME SPARKLY BLUE DRESS I wore to Darcy’s 30th. What!? What are the odds!? You’ve had this the whole time!? That’s it, we’re twinning.

Three weeks of birthday celebrations, day drinking, street fests, The Bachelorette, and Portillos morning, noon, and night briiiiiiiiiings us right up to date!

Boom. We did it.

I miss you guys already. Until Christmas, mis amores…..

I shall dream of you, and Portillos, until my return.

Ta ta for now,

T-boz