I've travelled more in the last two months than I have in the previous 6 years. This time, my gran is sick, and as she's 96.5 years old it necessitates a trip to the old country. I am fond of the granbag, maybe because we are so different. I admire her stubborn ways, like her refusing to use the bedside commode and insisting that she be led to the bathroom to go like a human being. Needless to say, I am hoping to avoid any bum-wiping duties while visiting.
Anyhoo, a few things.
One, I will be an international correspondent for a week or two, which is very exciting. I've been promoted! I haven't been to visit my gran since her 90th shindig, so look forward to seeing how the former Eastern bloc is coming along. Last I heard, one cousin was doing capoeira, the other was bustin' a move in hip hop dance class, and everyone was divorcing. I love global culture. I get to mangle the language and walk cobblestone streets and reminisce about the kinda-good-times I had when I lived there in 1995. Good sausage, too. When it gets cold enough, they fire up open grills in the central square. It's what broke my virtue as a vegetarian then, and it gets me every time.
Two, I feel very lucky. Luckylucky. My trip requires a change of planes in an eastern city, where I visited a special friend several weeks ago. (C'mon girls, think: Yes! That friend! Sex Week 2009). He was not supposed to be there, but found himself back there killing time between his travels; I was not supposed to be there, but a granddaughter's duty calls...but she's doing better, so yes, in true Gretchie spirit I'm stopping over for a couple of days to ahem, break up the journey. Get rested. Acclimatize to at least a partial time change. Get rogered properly for the last time in 2009. You know, all the usual reasons one checks into an airport hotel for two days.
So this trip was not planned far ahead, so this week has been a blur of booking tickets and hotel and finishing painting the damn walls beige (oh, pardon me: Brown Bread) and begging a friend to check in on the cat and impromptu lingerie shopping (shit, I hope those thongs are bearable to wear) and "staging" the house, i.e. rearranging the furniture to try and make it look like someone else lives there whose furniture collection does not consist almost entirely of desks. I have several, which apparently is unusual. I am becoming the eccentric I always dreamed of, perhaps I'll get a jaguar and turn into Auntie Mame.
Between logistics, I had the fleeting thought about preparing myself, you know, down there. It had been a while since my last waxing, and upon visiting the zoo I discovered my cute little beav had blossomed into a right grizz. So off to the aesthetician, the same one who said the first time I met her, "Mow it and they will come."
I also had one of those ridiculous pangs we all get when we're about to get it on, i.e. how do I smell these days, anyway? Crap, what the heck is this goo? Ladies, why does no one ever tell us about these random discharges? They appear mysteriously at times (am I ovulating? what's this mucusy stuff? whadafuh?). Then it's like, oh jeez, maybe I stink, maybe I have a low-grade yeast infection and don't even know it, perhaps I smell like day-old herring, what am I going to do, oh no, oh no...I never have smelled another woman's puss, so don't know what I'm supposed to smell like.
And it's not exactly a question I want to spring on my lover: "So, hey! Question. What's the air like down there? Mountain fresh or on the docks?" Jeez. Luckily, I have a dear friend who swears by boric acid capsules. I know the word "acid" doesn't necessarily cojoin naturally to vagina, but it restores pH and leaves one nice and balanced. So let's just say Gretch has been proactively taking her vitamins.
Anyway, I'm coming to the end of leg 1 of my journey. I will write in coming days and am hoping to interview a series of strangers on planes. It's been my experience people really open up on planes and ski lifts.
Cheers, Gretchen
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