where's my survival kit

Being the overly dramatic, worst case scenario death is IMMINENT kind of gal, Holy Fucking Hell, we are on vacation in two weeks and I've already started to feel queasy because I hate flying more than I would hate to be locked in a small space with a bazillion tarantula's crawling on my body...WHOA! Okay, not that much, but you get my drift.

SuperHubby was recently watching something on TV about the plane that landed in the Hudson River last year and I made him turn it off, because we ARE FLYING in 12 days and I don't want to know anything about planes falling from the sky. Nothing. At. All.

*Fingers stuffed in ears LALALALALALALALALA.

During my daily blog tour one day last week, and why shouldn’t the day be spent reading stuff? ohhh, work. That's right. I read one bad landing story, one sick passenger layover and a bazillion reminders about the Hudson River plane landing, thought this is it, we are surely going to fall out of the sky like a giant fucking stone. This doom scenario was not helped, not one little bit, when I got home to find my husband talking on the phone with his mother as she grilled him about our travel plans, the power of attorney for the kids while they are staying with them, how to reach us on the ship in case parts of New Jersey come under alien attack and they are forced to flee into the wilderness, the kids passports in case my in-laws need to sneak them out of the country, information on our life insurance policies, you know, in case WE CRASH. I kid you not. These conversations happened.

My mother-in-law totally has the disaster scenario disease or is subversively feeding mine in an effort to drive me batshit crazy. But at least they are prepared for something just this side of Armageddon while caring for the kids. We, on the other hand, are completely screwed.

I am so hiring Sully Sullenberger to fly our asses down to New Orleans, because if there is ever a pilot more trusted right now, I do not know about them.

SuperHubby asked me which Mayan Ruin tour would be most appealing when we pull into Mexico, perhaps by hiring a local to take us to a destination it would be 1) cheaper than arranging it through the cruise ship and b) allow us more time at the site. Most people would think YAY! Adventure!

Me? Here’s what played on the big screen inside my head: we might get kidnapped by the local cab driver, dropped in some backwater Mexican town and robbed of all our belongings, never to return to the ship on time, stranded. My Spanish? It sucks. We will never get home, because as we travel on dusty roads, with barely enough water to survive under the sweltering February sun, we will surely run into a truck load of banditos who will sell us into white slavery or we will be thrown into jail by the local police for being ignorant Americano's, to rot in some hellish local prison because the cab driver stole all of our money and we don’t have enough on us to pay the traditionally required bribe. So I just told him to choose one or my internal dialogue would never stop repeating Danger! Will Robinson, Danger! while my arms flap about in total indecision.

Mostly I keep this disaster crap buried inside my head, usually with the aid of Bourbon, because I like to do fun stuff and really, there is only so much disaster paranoia that a person can handle. Sometimes I think menopause has completely fucked with my ability to be a rational sane woman, as these kinds of thoughts never occurred to me when I was younger and my friend Gina and I annually went off on some new travel adventure, just because we wanted to go explore. Or having kids disrupted my brain chemistry that much. I may never know.

On a good note, Hey Vacation! Just SuperHubby and me, on a cruise ship, in the Caribbean. Hot stuff.



OH. MY. GOD. PIRATES!