Up in the Air

I had to fly again. 

Vomit.

It’s a very introspective time, flight.  One internal voice is all, everything dies and that’s sad, what is the nature of fear, what is the value of my life, blah blah blah.  The other is all, science and the 

Like this but with hyperventilation

universe are amazing, how does this even work, the same laws of physics that keep me in the air take people to space and move the planets and the stars.  One piece is all wide-eyed joy at the view, the experience, the world, the universe. The other is crouched in a tight, slobbery ball just….screaming.  It’s fine.

Some thoughts that have profound meaning when terrified: isn’t it interesting that your fear will neither keep you in the air nor make you fall?  This thing that moves you so profoundly has nothing to do with whether the plane works, or physics, or how your pilots are doing.  It completely permeates your interior world.  

But it is just you.  (This awareness, in a slightly bolder shade, is like the jet fuel for everything I’ve ever brought myself to do that I was soul-quakingly insecure of.)

Related concept, because it is just you, and interior, it is approximately the only thing you have control over in the situation.  And like…all these other people are doing fine (ok, most of them).  These pilots and flight attendants do this 

This is how that realization feels.

100 times a day and look at them, just living their lives and being at work and not just NOT being terrified, but being kind of bored about it.

Which means being in this situation without consuming, heart racing, spontaneous-crying-creating anxiety is an option. 

“So maybe,” wise interior voice, we'll call her "Stan", counsels, “consider giving that a try.”  Which I do!  And I learn an interesting thing about myself: 

I don’t want to give my fear up.  

Uh huh.  I feel safer when I am living in the grips of panic about how unsafe I think I am.  The paradox there is, frankly, a deeply infuriating mess of betrayal and pig snot.  

I'm mad about it.

WTF even is that.  I mean, what are we saying here?  That the fear is better—the terrible and useless ruination of my morning (and often the night before) is better than NOT that?  As though if I let the fear go, I would—what?  Fall out of the sky?  Asked and answered.  Be unable to react to a situation that might occur like a plane crash that I have no control over or hope of surviving?  But that also doesn’t make sense, because even terrified me can do things like make sure I still get cookies from the in-flight snack cart guy, or consider ways to show Red Pants how much I love him (I love you so much, Red Pants), or make a to do list.  But somewhere inside me I clutch desperately to the same anxiety that makes me miserable.  As though if I just let it go and chilled out, this would be worse. 

Are you effing kidding me?

Also, staring into the abyss of mortality and the nature of life and death is really just exhausting, answers no questions, and does not inspire me to, once on the ground, make healthier life choices or commit more to my dreams or whatever.  Kiiiiiinda one hell of a bait and switch, universe.

Other things I have noticed over the years:  taking off is a billion million times worse than landing.  Landing is fun!  Landing….feels different.  Even in turbulence, I’d rather be plummeting back to earth than moving away from it.  Maybe there are physical reasons having to do with how ascending vs descending feel in my body, or maybe it’s more of a 

Scientific imaging of my brain
 choosing anger as a fear response.

“at least we’re going down on purpose” thing.  


Maybe we’re close enough to the end of the horror show that I can get impatient about it, and annoyance creates an inhospitable environment for fear.  Who knows.

Going somewhere is worse than coming home.  I assume this is related to knowing, when I go somewhere, that I have another return flight on the horizon.  Or maybe the unknown of whatever trip I am on is also low key stressful and while that stress seems negligible to my conscious mind, my lizard back-brain is perfectly happy to let that anxiety in to the general anxiety fiesta going on in-flight.  In for a penny, in for a pound, that type of thing.  (Thanks, lizard back-brain, you’re REALLY GOOD AT THIS.)

Sometimes, it’s totally fine.  What is this?  Why is this even allowed to happen?  Sometimes, it’s just like “right, flight, whatever, fine” and other times I am reduced to only being able to breath and freak out.  Which goes back to the whole “all this is internal, there is nothing objectively terrible about this, oh and by the way the science just works, so maybe calm down.”  Which is true and also complete bs.  

While rare, plane crashes happen.  They’re terrible, and on the list of ways to die, it would be pretty bad.  You’d have way too long to think about it.  I sort of imagine that if I actually fell out of the sky, once I realized the mere sensation of falling wasn’t going to kill me, I’d be soooooo pissed.  I would like to never find out if that is true.  But irl crashes are quite rare, especially if you are making choices like going on a reputable airline that follows safety regulations, etc., not going toodling about with your posh friends on their prop-plane flying lessons.   

How about I just meet you there?

(Dear potential posh friends, I do not want to go on your flying lesson.  But, if you were to invite me to your villa in Costa Rica, I would absolutely suck it up, take Delta, and catch up with you in tropical paradise.  Just…think about it.)  






But then you look at things like the piper cubs from WWII and those just WORKED, Air Force One just WORKS—planes work.  Flying works. 

My unresolved fear, caring not at all.

Sometimes I can talk myself down from the fear—I can choose to let it go.  That is a weird feeling akin to thinking you are not clenching your back muscles until a masseuse pushes on you and is like, you should take a deep breath and relax that…and then you do, and realize you can, and in fact you were the one clenching it the whole time.  V strange.  Similar to flying: both cool and unsettling.

The thing is, the trip is worth it.  While I’m safely on the ground I can decide things like “I’m going to Family Camp” or “I’m going to my friend’s wedding” and get that flight.  And once you’re on, it doesn’t matter how much you hate it or if you’re psychologically ready or not—you’re going up.   And then you get to see other parts of the world and learn the landscape of your interior world and, sometimes, do Red Pants photo shoots.

Ready for his adventure!

This...is not helping.

These in flight entertainment options
 are either boring or expensive.

Is that guy snoring?

Dance Party in the lavatory!  We are OCCUPIED!

Cruising altitude achieved.

Somebody is way chiller about this than I am.

Family Camp

Ok, so Family Camp.

I just went, for the third year, on a family vacation.  A very specific and special family vacation.  “Andy” came this year, which made it extra awesome, and also my dad and step mom, sister and step sister, and their husbands and children.  We roll into this place eight adults deep, towing five children.  It’s pretty epic.  

<3 Family Camp <3

But not compared to the basic essence of what this place is.

Family Camp is actually called The Tyler Place.  It is in nowhere Vermont (sorry, people of Swanton), on Lake Champlain- which means you look across the water at Canada.  For those of you who are not millennials, I can describe it as the no kidding, dead-for-real inspiration for Dirty Dancing.  For the culturally stunted amongst us 

This picture should need no caption.

who do not know that movie, I can direct you to Netflix.  When you search for it there, Netflix will come up with Magic Mike, which is an excellent movie about the bonds of adult male friendship, but not at all related to Dirty Dancing.  So next step, probably Amazon, go watch it immediately, I’ll wait.

For the rest of you—no kidding.  Dirty Dancing. Hopefully with less heartbreak but honestly I don’t know the interior world of all the staff.  Like, your kids spend a week at summer camp…and so do you, but without your kids.  I mean not in a creepy way, you get them some, but they are off in the morning and the evening at their camps having the time of their lives doing archery and kayaking 

Pirate night for adults happens on the
champagne cruise. 
You know who you are, pirates.

and having pajama night or pirate night, while you are having a perfectly civilized time with other adults, also doing archery or kayaking or having pajama night, but with happy hour with yummy hors d’oevres.  The child care at TP is excellent, and the short people are having the best week of their lives, so you have no guilt about marathon napping or having adult conversations or, if you are my family, pursuing high stakes smack talking blood sports like frisbee golf and put-put.  All of those options and more are built into this idyllic space, where you get to do camp like adults want to—either inside with a book on the couch, or learning to sail, or at the bar, or arts and crafts, or whatever.  It is the perfect place for, in our case, three generations to all have a great vacation going at their own speed for an entire stress free week. 

At night, they have adult activities like trivia or jazz night or dance party night, and at the front desk you can get a babysitter for a reasonable hourly rate that they have vetted and trained.  (If you're reading, Sydney, we miss you!)

I don’t have kids, so for me, this means I get to be around my fam when they aren’t stressed about their kids (or scheduling…or meals…), and I don’t have to aunt with any more ambition than I’m feeling at any given moment.  I mean, if you’re feeling the pool, go with them to the pool—but if you’re not, the kids are having an incredible time anyway.  
(In previous years, without kids or a buffer plus-one, it also meant getting to sit alone at the bar and have a woman who’s name you don’t know tell you you should hurry up and just get pregnant, and don’t worry about “Andy,” you’ll always love your kid more than him anyway.  Family Camp is strange without kids.)

The food is problematically good.  Every day—every meal you’re like, this time I’ll reign it in, and then they bring out the pork tenderloin and the salted caramel 
fountain, and your resolve crumbles like the perfect crust on the Vermont maple cream pie.  

Lobster night, people.

It’s amazing.

It turns out, Tyler Place was started by the Wristens and the Tylers, until there was an unfortunate incident and the Wristens are heard of no more.  I have surmised this from the sign bragging over the lovely bar (kids are not allowed in the bar area, just fyi) that dates from the original camp, naming it “The Tyler and Wristen Place”.  

No spoilers, Reader, I'm in season 1.

As it is now just the Tyler Place, the only fair assumption to make is that some Westworld style Arnold smack went down years ago.  So that’s probably true.  (If you want to learn more, there is a tour you can sign up for.)

Also involved in the founding of the place was definitely Snow White, because the woodland creatures are all in for giving you the full escape-from-reality experience.  There are bunnies and fatfaces everywhere, being super adorable and probably making

Fat Face!!!!

your beds and leaving you those sweet folded-towel-animals you get when you’re out of the rooms.  

Go forth...and make the world beautiful!

The birds chirp at a level that wakes me up because I set my phone to sound like birds in the morning so I’m trained for that noise to wake me up.  They are offended by that very premise, and with great gusto proved to me that there’s nothing like the real thing.  (If you want to learn more, there is a birdwatching activity you can sign up for.)

The internet at TP is garbage, which sounds terrible but is wonderful.  I mean it’s there.  It just takes long enough for anything to load that if it’s not mission critical, you let it go.  This is good because then you don’t have to deal with crap like the Space Force and child concentration camps while you’re trying to remind yourself what good is left in the world.  (Down side, all that hits you real hard in the gut when you get back, and the diet-and-exercise plan you formed when eating everything in sight turns into a drinking-alone-and-calling-your-senators plan.) 

omg omg omg omg

...transition through adorable sloth baby...

There is but one TV at Tyler Place, back behind the bar, but I posit a challenge for any future TPers to find and map every hammock.  They are many.  Finding them would be a joy, but the quest will be arduous because you will want to nap on all of them, the day is only so long, and no one wants to miss one of those perfect meals.  

But what if insteeeaaaad
we put together a business plan?

(How do they get buffet style meats AND veggies cooked to perfection?  Answer: Witchcraft.  Snow White must have worked it out with her step mom and they came up with a baller retirement gig.)

I am into the arts and the crafts so I not only sign up for every scheduled opportunity to partake, but also raid the arts and crafts building as though I am allowed to and steal stuff to entertain myself while whiling away my lazy hours.  I mean, it’s not camp if you don’t make friendship bracelets and key chains.  But the art lady, she is amazing.  Cool, calm, (tolerant of theft,) competent with adults and with children, laid back and fun and a gift to humanity.  Also super-appreciated during scheduled arts and crafts time is my step mom, who signed her and me and all the kids up for 

I'm sure it's fine.

the family slot as though we were all in it together and was very forgiving when I was like, cool, you got these crazy, over-tired kids and their paint?  Cuz Ima make some shrinky-dinks soooo…. (if you are interested in calmer, less messy creativity, there are adults-only arts and crafts activities you can sign up for.)

The Cruise Directors and bar staff are perfect.  They are fun, and kind, and funny, and nice to you when you are a weird 38 year old without kids to get up for in the morning so you’re alone at the bar listening to strangers tell you to get knocked up.  They remember the drink you liked from two years ago and make it for you.  They tolerate your attempts at friendship and remember your name when they are holding 150 new names in their head every week.  They give you awards for your performance at the lip sync 

Did everyone not bring their space suit?

section of trivia night (that’s a thing) which you absolutely didn’t even want to do it until you realized you could put on your space suit, which you totally brought, because everything is better in costuming, and then you just acted like a crazy person to the Beastie Boys Intergallactic. 

Thursday night is Dance Party night.  TP has this policy that the staff is totally allowed to hang out with the guests, it’s fine.  There’s no tipping, so if someone is talking to you it’s cuz they want to.  And Dance Party night is for them as much as for you (they are young, and locked in rural Vermont for a whole summer).  So us old farts roll in, and we still got it, right up until liiiiiiiike 9:30 and then most people are like, mm, but bed tho.  Meanwhile the staff slow rolls in all evening, dressed to the nines (again, they live at a camp all summer, there’s not a lot of opportunity to show out), and they rock it til the wheels fall off, then move it to the staff housing (because the wheels didn’t actually fall off, because they are young). 

But this particular dance party night, everyone got to experience what happens when my dad brings it.  I mean, he’s 74.  Had back surgery like 6 weeks ago, his second in two years.  Not a great heart.  Not recovering perfectly.  But just in case I ever though I could begin to forget where I came from, Dad TORE IT DOWN on the dance floor.   He went right up to the DJ and requested a song, and the 

This but MY DAD.

guy maybe wasn’t sure what he asked for (I am watching all of this avidly from the dance floor), so DJ looks something up and plays it on his head phones and hands them to Dad to confirm.  I will, for the rest of my life, have the image of my dad bobbing his head with half a DJ’s headphone pressed to his ear like a mfing professional, in a dark room full of shaking bodies and one of those multicolored spinning light things.  Handling it like he was born to rock.  

This is the image I held on to when I got on the plane home, dealing with my outsized anxiety—we can all just die horribly right now, but this image gives me comfort and lets me tell gravity to bring it.  (J/k gravity, respect, it’s just a blog, pls don’t ever actually bring it, but also my dad.)

Then his song came on, and my father led a whole dance circle.  

He wouldn’t tell us what he requested til it came on, then he jumps right up before anyone (me) recognizes “Shout” pumping through the speakers.  And the man shouted.  Lifted his hands up, and shouted.  Kicked his heels up, and shouted. (C’mon now.) When the song got a little bit softer now, my dad was the lowest one on the dance floor.  When it got a little bit louder now, he led the charge.  It was…magnificent.

Equally magnificent was taking the nieces on the lake, and watching them both go down the scariest water slide out there.  They have, at Tyler Place, a death slide.  It’s like an old school 80’s playground slide, except on a floating raft, and also about 10 feet higher than the water.  It has a twist in it.  It is one of those common optical illusions of feats, that looks like nothing from the bottom (it’s not that far from the bottom of the slide to the water!  The top is not that high!) then you get up there and it’s like…..1,000 feet high, and moving in weird ways, because the base is on water.   And both those girls, at their tender ages of 7 and 4, handled it.  I mean they were terrified, but they both did it, and within 3 minutes were breathing normally again and were quite proud of themselves.  I’m almost sure no long-term damage was done.

“Andy” came on this trip, and got to actually spend low key, fun, quality time with my step mom, my dad, my sisters and brothers-in-law, and even the kids.  My oldest niece went from, “Here’s a funny joke, who is family and who is not?  IT’S YOU “ANDY”.  IT WILL ALWAYS BE YOU,” to “When are you going to marry him, I have spent my tiny 7 years wanting to be a flower girl, don’t screw this up for me.”  He picked me (sucker!) so he was already ready for the indelible family motto: If we are not mean to you it means we do not like you.   We haze in my family.  (Except my step mom, she’s the nice one.)  We talk smack.  We will stop if you can’t take it, but then we do not know if we can trust you.  And he did a very stand up job of taking it and dishing it back.  

Also he won put-put, and made it clear in archery that despite any previous impressions I may have given regarding skill sets, in the event of the total break down of society, he is in charge of catching dinner.  

He’s still not allowed on the roof though.  That would be ridiculous.  

(Also, in case you’re reading, “Andy”, neither of the cats count as dinner and you’ll have to arch for them too.)

Family Camp is not cheap, and irl I could never afford it—but my family has set up a scholarship program for me that allows me to go, because family.  (Thanks, y’all, if you’re reading!)  It is priceless time, getting to actually visit, getting to not lose your mind making dinner or worrying that the kids are entertained, getting to forge memories, getting to experience the good in the world.

FAMILY!!!

(Side Bar: I generally try and keep these posts light, and fun, and not centered on the terribleness of the world.  But it would be cowardly and inhumane not to take a moment to at acknowledge the terrible things our government has been doing to children and families at our border.  I have too many feelings to really speak on this, but…moment of silence for the kids crying themselves to sleep tonight.  Everyone please please call, donate, act, and demand action to protect them.) 

Let us all be decent to one another.

A Mighty Day.

Omg I did so much.

A little context: I just went on a week-long family vacation to rural Vermont.  (A little more context: Hello!  It’s been a while, Reader!  I took a break from writing because I have a medical condition called Doing Too Much, which has overlapped nicely with the more broad environment known as 

Me for like...a month.

The Current State of the World, and basically I haven’t had it in me for a while.  Vacation helps.)   We are not from Vermont, no one of the clan lives in Vermont, but we have been going there for the last three years and probably will continue to do so for as long as possible.  More on that another day.

Anyway, a week’s vacation is, to me, a long one.  Especially to be away the whole time, not just off work and on your couch in your slobbiest clothes, deciding not to vacuum.  Being away is marvelous, but coming home is a bittersweet joy.  On the one hand, you get to be home—the way I feel when I get off a plane in my home airport is indescribable.  Probably related to the rampant, soul searing, mystical confrontation with my mortality I have every time I get on an airplane, but also related to just being home.  It smells like home.  The strangers on the train look like home.  The traffic sucks like home.  And then when I get home home, I get to be covered in cats, slobbing it on the couch, deciding not to vacuum. 

This is not what it feels like.

On the other hand, your house is a wreck, the cats have peed outside the litter box, there is a laundry situation, and you have to go back to your regular life.

Additionally, if you have recently become obsessed with fermenting things and how their consumption affects your interior ecology, you also have a lot of chores to do—immediately.  Kefir and ginger bug have been resting in the fridge for a week and need some food, warmer temperatures, and quality time being sung to and told how much you missed them.  Kombucha is past due.  Pickles are almost gone- and those take 3-6 weeks (oops).

So I got right to it the morning after I got back at the brisk, efficient hour of noon-thirty.  I had a warm breakfast of ”Oh my god I am too fat to live after last week and will never be hungry again” 

You should take one.  Probably two.
In case of emergency. 

and coffee.  (This is not about how I literally don’t fit in the pants I took with me anymore and am feeling sad about it, this is my body revolting after I needed to try every dessert, every meal, for 7 days straight.  Did you know breakfast can have a dessert course?  Like, separate from and in addition to crème brulee french toast or pancakes with Vermont maple syrup?  It can.  It did.  I regret nothing.  But I wasn’t hungry the morning after I got back.)  (Also having to prepare my own meals again is bullshit.)

I took a look around and decided to make a list.  I am a human being that loves lists.  You may have noticed, Reader: I love tasks, activities, and projects.  I am also flighty and will forget what I am doing right in the middle of doing it.  Real talk, I have to leave the house three times every time I leave the house because I left something silly like my shoes inside.  So, lists. 

I missed you so much,
you tiny Monster!!

My list was mostly centered on getting the household back in swing again, by which I mean taking care of my cats, my ferments, and (ugh) if I’m feeling ambitious, maybe some of that dumb stupid useless terrible laundry.

It is worth noting at this point that I have an avoidance streak of significant proportions when it comes to laundry.  I avoid laundry like people avoid their ex’s wedding.  If I start a load, I leave it forever.  If by some miracle it gets dried, the dried heap moves to the bedroom floor until “Andy” notices mice have moved into it.  I re-wear clothes like cat hair is fashion forward.  I own one thousand pieces of underwear, because being out of clean underwear is the nonnegotiable point of “FINE I will do this DUMB CHORE that takes, literally, ONLY MOMENTS of actual activity to get done; the world is terrible.” 

How I feel about laundry.

Anyway, I get started on not-the-laundry.  I bring my ferments back online, and get them chugging along happily.   I have gotten good at making and consuming kefir every day, (huzzah!!) but there’s a caveat in there.  If kefir sits too long at too warm a temp, it curdles past where you want to drink it.  This happens…often.  I guess my

My breakfast's not weird,
your breakfast is weird.

 kitchen is just too warm for the 24 hour cycle that kefir seeds are supposed to be on.  I have come up with a solution to this though—I just strain out the curds from the whey and make weird tangy farmer’s cheese out of it.  Add some honey and fruit if you’re feeling sweet, some garlic and salt if you’re feeling savory, but it’s yummy and I don’t have to just throw away the overfermented stuff staring at me accusingly from the jar. 

I make more tea for kombucha, and even go back through the fallen soldiers living lonely forgotten lives in my fridge.  I like to make kombucha more than I like to drink it, is the problem.  (Will this slow me down from making kombucha?  No it will not.)  

It's fine.

So I have jars that I have flavored, done the second ferment for, then not finished drinking.  Well, I restrain those suckers and taste them—and a month in the fridge has not done them wrong.  They’re delicious, and now I have remembered that they exist and even consolidated them into appropriately-sized mason jars.  (“Andy” is constantly fighting for real estate in our fridge full of mason jars and tupperware projects of every size.)

I start a new batch of pickled carrots, and start to dream of sauerkraut.  I even get a little swagger and decide to make ginger beer.

This is my third batch of ginger beer.  The first one was terrible—just…real bad.  I did something wrong.  Anyway, I was more precise the second time, and it turned out great.  It only takes a few days to make, and it keeps forever in the fridge, so I’ve been looking forward to the third batch.  I got a little fancy with the flavor this time—does cinnamon go with ginger?  Does basil?  Is the lemon juice that every recipe calls for really that important?  Is this casual relationship with recipes why the first batch was so bad?  We’ll see in a few days!

THEN I decide to be a stupid adult person who can totally absolutely handle her life like stupid adults do and do some stupid laundry.  Not unrelated, other people have also just come back from our week-

"Seriously can you please just get that started?
Please? Please."

long vacation and have their own interest in the washer and dryer and have been watching me doing not-laundry all afternoon, and have subtle and persuasive ways of getting me to actually do the thing.  

This feels like betrayal but only because I am, emotionally, an infant. 

I also get a little ballsy about it and unpack, an achievement that usually takes until the next time I need my luggage, and while I’m at it clean the bathroom.  I am basically a super hero.

If this image is unfamiliar to you, do yourself a favor and spend your time and money here.

Then—THEN, Reader—I did the unthinkable, and went to the grocery store. 

ALDI 4 LIFE!!

Going to the grocery store is a feat that usually requires 48-72 hours of mental preparation to achieve.  I don’t hate the store, and I don’t hate shopping, I just hate going.  Specifically, I won’t go to the grocery store unless 1) it is on my way home from work and I have worked it into the plan of my day far in advance, or 2) it is the Event of My Morning on a non-work day, that I have been working myself up to ever since I ran out of basic staples like eggs, usually at least a week before the actual trip.

This situation has not improved since moving in with “Andy”.  I mean, my food security has—“Andy” is that rarest of creatures who will leave the house after getting in from work, say at 7 pm, like it’s nothing, just for milk.  He will happily run out to get ice cream if he has a particular craving, whereas I have been known to spread peanut butter on a cheese stick for dinner because that’s what we have and it’s better than leaving the house.  If he is reading this right now, he is retching just thinking about it, and probably on his way to the store just in case to avoid the chance of encountering such a display in person, or even knowing it could occur in the house where he sleeps.  So he keeps us in our staples, and I go to the store less.

Who am I?  Am I Rihanna?
(I will keep sharing her until you love her as I love her.)

But that day—I just went.  In the evening.  Unplanned.  Because I wanted to make more pickles, and also I need lunches for work next week, and while I’m at it I can go ahead and get the cat food stuff even though this is not the last possible moment before they starve, and basically I don’t know who I am any more.

And when I got home, Reader, I ACTUALLY DID the things I went to the store to get things for.  Again, I love projects—I think we all know this by now.  But usually actually leaving the house to drive the seven minutes to the store and back is so much of a mental event, I’m done.  But not this time!  This time I got home, made sauerkraut, set up pickled snow peas (yeah, I don’t know either, but it seemed like a good idea), and then even made salad dressing in advance!

My salad is like that.

I have been taking salads in for lunch for the past month.  Not to brag, but I make a mighty salad.  My salads are next level.  But they take a while to make in the morning, and it has taken me right up til today to think of making the dressing in advance so I can save time in the morning.  I am a very smart person.

I even helped make dinner, and got started writing this sweet love letter to you, dear Reader.  It was a mighty day.

"Andy" just reminded me to finish my laundry.