The double-edged sword of PMS

Okay, so just returned from two weeks of fun and adventure in Palm Springs with lots of stories to tell, but since I have raging PMS right now, I'm gonna write about that instead.

I've never been a PMS apologist who claims it doesn't exist and gives anyone crass enough to mention it the hairy eyeball. Frankly, I couldn't hide my PMS if I tried.

Anyone who knows me more than casually knows how my hormones can hijack me faster than a 747 over Libyan airspace.

Back in college (when Beavis and Butthead was all the rage), I used to pull my T-shirt over my head and chase my friend Rachel around our dorm shouting, "I am the great Hormonio!"

(Remember that Beavis? I call her Beavis. Still. She calls me Beavis too).

Anyhow, last night was kind of a typical PMS night for me. I was a cranky, bitchy wreck of a human being. Valerie, be glad you weren't home!

I went to Wal-Mart to get some groceries. I had just run a bunch of mile repeats and was STARVING! The only thing I wanted was Morning Star brand Buffalo Wings (my grown up PMS food).

When I got home, I realized that I had somehow left the bag with both my buff wings and my garden burgers at Wal-Mart. So being both PMSsy and also hangry, I proceeded to have a massive meltdown.

It didn't help that when I opened the back of the Honda (still crowded with all my unpacked vacation crap), my case of Pabst Blue Ribbon came sliding out and landed on my toes.

Then I saw a box of Jen's hand-blown glass bees ($80 a pop) teetering on the verge of crashing to the pavement. Fortunately I caught it before it fell, but it only made me even more strung out.

I began to tear the car apart in search of the missing wings and burgers. When I didn't find them, I swear to you, I started cursing inanimate objects. I was like, bleep you Honda! Bleep you garden burgers! Bleep you, Wal-Mart!

Fortunately, my next-door neighbor was in Wyoming, so he didn't call the cops. But that was a pretty typical PMS evening for me.

But you know what? PMS can cut both ways. And on vacation just a few days ago, it actually worked in my favor for once.

It happened when Jen and I went to the "Amazing Animal Show" (or similar ridiculous spectacle) at The Living Desert in California. The retired volunteers at the park assured us it was a must see.

I said to Jen, "The second an animal dances, I'm outta here."

She said, "Let's sit over there by the exit." We weren't so optimistic, see.

At the start of the show, the trainer held up her glove and out of nowhere, this beautiful great-horned owl came flapping over the audience and landed on her arm. There were lots of oohs and ahs.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the trainer. "I'd like you to meet ... Boob-o."

At the mention of this name, some synapse in my brain misfired on apocalyptic scale. I looked at Jen and said, in my best Butthead voice, "His name is Boob ..." And then I was laughing about as hard as I've ever laughed in my life.

Laughing loudly and obnoxiously and doubling over in spasms and gasping for breath. Laughing so hard tears started pouring down my face. Laughing harder than I've ever laughed at anything that was actually funny.

"Oh god," I sobbed and laughed. "Do you have a Kleenex, Jen?"

All I could picture was the trainer stopping the show to scold me for my interruption. Which made me laugh even harder.

Or getting escorted out by security, or the medical team. Which was pretty funny too.

It took me about five minutes to compose myself. But throughout the show (in which I'm happy to say no animals danced), periodic snorts of obnoxious laughter erupted from my nose.

So what set me off? I'm 99 percent sure it was PMS. It was the same overwhelming tidal wave of emotion that hits me when I'm watching the news at that time of the month and suddenly I'm crying over a dog stuck in a cave or a kid giving his allowance to the homeless.

But for once, instead of irritability, the emotion was pure, unbridled mirth. Delight. Lightness. Joy. Because for a just a minute, that poor owl's name was the funniest thing in the multiverse.

I wish I had more months like that.

POSTSCRIPT:

Okay, I realize the owl's name was actually probably spelled Bubo (though Boob-o, complete with hyphen, was the spelling that popped into my head). So when I went home and googled Bubo, this was the first link I got:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bubo

Seriously, this poor owl can't win.

Coffee mug IED ... aka holiday airport nightmare

Okay, so I have no one to blame but myself. I bought my ticket late, so it ended up looking like so:

December 30, 2010

CLEVELAND - OHARE 6:54 AM

OHARE - FARGO 9:45 AM

FARGO - DENVER 12:03 PM

The first sign of trouble came early in the morning when I sent my bag through the x-ray machine in Cleveland and my new stainless steel coffee mug set off the alarm. The TSA agent marched me over to the corner and ordered me to watch and "not touch anything" while he swabbed the mug with white cotton.

I remembered this test from the security checkpoints in Indonesia. After they wipe the object down, they put the gauze in a microwave-looking thing that checks it for bomb residue. It was freaking early, my caffeine blood level was dangerously low, and I was not amused. I made a point of checking my watch and scowling through the whole process.

Maybe that un-zenlike attitude turned the wheel of karma against me.

After clearing security, I flew to Chicago, where the weather was foggy. The flight to Fargo was delayed 15 minutes and sat on the ground for 20 more.

As we approached Fargo, the pilot announced that since the visibility was only 1/4 miles, we couldn't land. At 12:15, we were still circling in the air. I prayed my connecting flight was grounded. We finally landed, and as we taxied through the thick fog, snow blew past the windows in horizontal streaks.

For reasons unknown, they sent our gate-checked carry-ons to baggage claim. As I raced down the stairs, I caught sight of the DEPARTURES board. My 12:03 flight had apparently left ON TIME.

The customer service line stretched all the way back to Terre Haute. Stranded travelers grumbled about renting 4 x 4s and trying to make it to the Minneapolis airport. I noticed with rising panic that there were A) only 3 more flights out of Fargo that day and B) no food for sale in this airport.

Suddenly an announcement: UNITED PASSENGER MAURER, PLEASE COME TO GATE 4 FOR IMMEDIATELY DEPARTURE. I raced up the stairs to the security check-point where by some miracle there was no line. Pulled off my boots. Wrestled the laptop out of its case. Shoved everything through the machine.

The alarm went off.

"I have to search your bag," said the TSA guy.

I wanted to strangle him. "That person they just called is ME!"

"It's too late. They already closed the gate."

I felt like snatching my bag back and pounding him on the head with it. "So what do I do?" I shouted. I stopped short of demanding that he supply me with Subway for the entire week I was about to be stranded here.

"Well, you can check the gate. Sometimes they'll open the door again. A-ha!" He pulls out the culprit -- my coffee mug. Seriously, are coffee mug IEDs becoming a terrorist trend? For good measure, he swabs my hands for residue.

I grab my bag and run for gate 4. The woman at the podium smiles and opens the door. I tell her I want to hug her, and she laughs. "You have no idea how many people wanted your seat," she says.

The moment I get on, I recognize the flight attendant. I was never in any danger of missing my connecting flight. The plane to Denver is the same one I just landed on from Chicago.

**HEADDESK**

**WINEGLUG**

I'm in the unpacking phase. It's very emotional.

Six years ago, I left for Shanghai with two suitcases.

Yesterday, I arrived at Anne's garage to pick up my sea shipment. Thirty freakin' boxes! Maybe I have one of those hoarding complexes. Watch out, in a few years I will have ninety-six cats and won't be able to throw out a ball of tin foil without crying =).

Unpacking my stuff was bittersweet. There are so many memories in those boxes--the good times, the bad times and the s*it times, as Borat would say.

Well hello there, Thailand-for-Obama 2008 T-shirt! It was so much fun watching the debates and the inauguration at the Road House.

And for all the Joe Plumbers playing a drinking game at home -- MAVERICK!

Oh, look! I found my hiking boots just in time for the big climb up Long's Peak tomorrow. Bet they still have dust on from Kilimanjaro!

And there's my bike Jersey, horribly stained by the red earth of Thailand. I'm glad I ran out of Shout before that trip.

Well isn't this a treat. Three KOTEKAS from New Guinea! I'll show you how to wear one later. On second thought, here's a link to the eHow article. Er, nope, they don't have that. Oh well, you'll just have to google it. AFTER you get home from work.

And here's my fav Bangkok Hash shirt! Racy, racy. Wonder if I'll get arrested if I wear it in Colorado? Oh, well, I gave up my dream of a Senate seat long ago =).

Now this one has definitely come full circle! My old sweatshirt from my CSU days. Lord of the Rings was all the rage back at the time, and I loved putting the hood up and doing my elf impression. Dear Hoodie: welcome back to the hood!

While I was unpacking, Duri was going crackers! He's probably terrified we're moving. AGAIN. He felt better once I opened up a box of kitchen stuff and found Mr. Blue, Blue Mouse!

Whew! That felt like I just unpacked a whole container ship! Know how much it was? FIVE BOXES! Feeling a bit emotional--and also wondering if I might need to tunnel into the next-door neighbor's basement and conquer it in the name of storage capacity.

It's definitely wine-o-clock.

Have any of you guys ever had to do this? Did you manage to unpack the whole thing without a nervous break down? Therapeutic comments needed ...

WISCONSIN: Here, you're never too old to club

Here's two things I missed in Asia: PBR and my old I-House friend, Kevin. He lives in Whitewater, Wisconsin. Sounds like an awesome place to kayak, right? Well, no.

Kevin wanted me to have a real Wisconsin cultural experience, so he made reservations at the Buckhorn Supper Club. I got excited, because the only other "supper club" I know is Bed Supper Club in Bangkok, a restaurant-slash-uber-chic dance club (Boy George was the guest DJ last May). In central Wisconsin, Kev says, supper club is usually the most happening spot in town.

I told Kev my clubbing clothes were in the shipment. He said it was fine, and that I didn't even have to take a shower! Here's me in front of Buckhorn Supper Club (yes, I know those shorts don't do a thing for me).

So here's what Wisconsin supper club's all about: it's a place where OLD PEOPLE hang out! They meet up, drink beer and hork down massive amounts of meat and potatoes. En serio, we were about the youngest people there by 30 years.

Here's a shot of the inside. Sorry, no Boy George.

Supper club, as it turns out, is GREAT for people watching. Let's face it. Once you hit a certain age, you probably lose most of your hang-ups. So if you feel like busting out your bugle right on the patio and playing a craptastic rendition of Taps as the sun goes down, you just do it! We had got several free bugle performances, and a capella show tunes too.

Here's the beautiful sunset over Lake Koshkonong (sans bugle audio):

By the way, Wisconsin (and lots of the upper Midwest) was still recovering from a massive flood when I visited. In Whitewater, they actually had seven inches of rain in an hour! You rarely get that much in a bonafide tropical rain forest. Here's what's left of the boat slip outside the Buckhorn. According to our waitress, the water is still "a foot or two" above normal.

Supper Club is such a tradition in Wisconsin, that Capital Brewery in Whitewater makes Supper Club Beer. Yup, we tried it and it was light and refreshing, perfect for summer!

And the food? Two words: big and cheap! For about 13 USD each, Kev got a humongous steak and I got a four-piece chicken dinner--plenty for lunch on the road the next day.

So that's your crash course in Wisconsin's supper club scene. Kevin says he's hoping to get to the supper club more often, as there's not much happening in Whitewater. Kev, buddy, I'm thinking maybe it's time for you to move soon =) Though I'll visit you anywhere, especially now that I've eaten your ragingly good, homemade, CHOCOLATE-CHILI ICE CREAM.

East Chicago's Galactic Shite Hole

I've driven to Chicago a few times, and every time I eagerly await Gary, Indiana's appearance on the horizon. Just in case you missed it, Gary is the biggest piece of jaw dropping, industrial urban squalor in the known universe. Miles and miles of belching, flaming smoke stacks, rusty factories, snarls of pipes that tower four stories high ... seriously, worse then ten Jakartas and worse than Beijing on a white-out smog day. if there were an evil Gargamel of global warming and carbon emissions, the Pilsbury factory in Gary would be his castle.

Gary seems like the kind of place you could find Mad Max, The Terminator and Oliver Twist all living on the same street, but in reality, Gary's most famous native son is Michael Jackson. When I stopped at the Indiana Welcome Center, I looked around for brochures about The Michael Jackson Historic Homestead or, failing that, the Haunted Gary Toxic Waste Cruise. I really wanted an excuse, I realized, to commune with this city that had so captured my imagination. Alas, there were no tourist attractions at the Gary exit, and I can only conclude that it's the type of place where, like East Cleveland, you can't slow down or you'll die.

True to form, Gary was plagued with construction and traffic, which finally bogged down in the giant morass of Chicago. The sun was shining for once, turning the air a shimmery green. I bet Gary has great sunsets, but after driving through it a time or two, you couldn't pay me to eat a single fish from Lake Michigan. Hell, you couldn't pay me to eat a single particle of plankton.

Seat-of-the-Arse Road Trip 2010

OK, so now that have seen six years looking at cheese-ball tourist traps in foreign lands, it's time to see some in my own country! Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota, Corn Palace, Wall Drug, etc.,here I come!

I should mention that this is possibly the most half assed piece of travel I have ever executed, right up there with getting bored and going to Jakarta airport with a duffle bag to see if they had tickets left to anywhere kewl. (Repeat after me: the airport is not a bus station). Anyhoo, I have waited until the last possible moment to nail down my departure dates, and I'm still not sure the owner of one of the couches I plan to crash on knows I'm coming. The temporary plates on my new Honda are due to expire en route and when I arrive in Estes Park (on Saturday, Sunday or possibly Tuesday), I will crash with Kelly and Phil for somewhere between one and three weeks.

But I must say, after six years of highly regimented living, it feels kinda neat. And since my friends haven't seen me for years, hopefully they'll have mercy when I show up unannounced (or three days later than announced) at their door. Being the flaky friend from far off lands does have its moments, though I promise I really do not milk them. Too much.

A very loose itinerary (almost laugh as that word):

Thursday -- Get up, do laundry, pack and load card (as procrastinating too much to do it tonight). Attempt to depart at 10:00 am. Drive through Chicago madness to Whitewater, WI and stay with I-House friend Kevin, who is study abroad advisor at the college.

Friday -- Drive to St. Cloud, Minnesota to stay with Julie and new husband Shaun. Actually, he is 2-year old husband, but still new to me, kind of like the Honda, as I've only met him once. I hope they got the email that says I'm coming to see them. Fortunately, they live on a tiny college campus, so confident I can locate using elementary stalking techniques.

Saturday -- Going to South Dakota! Not sure why this is so exciting, as by all indications is another vast, empty state like Nebraska or Kansas. Relatives of mine were Lakota Sioux, so bet I will just feel at home there, like I'm in a biergaarten in Munich chugging Hefeweizen with all the other Maurers and Schwartzes. No friends in SD, so will probably just check in to a No-Tell Motel and attempt to sneak the cat in.

Sunday -- Inshallah, Estes Park, CO. Seems close to the Dakotas. Easy peasy driving day.

Still amazed at how little prep required to travel in the States. No visa, no passport. Every state is like visa on arrival, only don't need to stand in line for it or leave every six months to keep it. Brilliant concept.