Chapter One Hundred Forty-One: Captain Sully where art thou?…

Packing for this trip is stressing me out. I weigh my ridiculous Keyser Soze suitcase and, it is over the 50-pound limit( like its owner). I decide to pull out my underwear and pour those into my carry-on hoping the customs agent will think I am importing tents, and not realize they are my granny undies that could probably house a small family as shelter. I feel like Sophie in the movie Sophie’s choice. I pick which one will stay and which will go. My suitcase, like my life, is a stew of nonsense. I am EXHAUSTED! I am also not a good flyer, I have gotten an alert on my phone from the airline as I am doing my online check-in. They are informing me that because of my seat location, I will be assisting the flight attendant with the emergency exit door in case of an emergency. First of all, I want to answer back to them: “Do you not vet your passengers properly?” I am the WORST person to have to assist in a potential emergency! Especially one that involves opening a door thirty-five thousand feet up in the air. What are we going to parachute out and land on a nice island? I THINK NOT! I can guarantee you that I am CHARLIE BROWN! Captain Sully will NOT be my pilot landing smoothly on the water, plane intact. I will have Skippy who is on his first transatlantic flight. He will have a reaction from either his acne medication or the fish that he inhaled during the flight. Rusty his trusty co-pilot will announce in a semi-panicked tone if: “There are any pilots on board?”(I guess Rusty never got the memo that he is a pilot.)
A sketchy passenger who looks like Jerry Garcia, and is probably on the same stuff as Jerry Garcia, will come forward and stagger to the cockpit. We will find out from Ingrid, the stoic and sweat-resistant flight attendant that Jerry Garcia doppelgänger grew up on a farm in Indiana and would accompany his grandfather Henry in the crop duster. I will hone in on the word “ACCOMPANY” and tell myself that it’s another word for passenger. He was only riding shot-gun in Grandpa Henry’s plane.
There will be panic and screaming ensuing, and it will be coming from me! Yes, this is where my mind goes upon reading my marching orders from the airline. How about you send me an alert offering me an upgrade, say to FIRST CLASS? How about you send me an alert that my bag is FREE? and not more than a ticket to Florida? I am just saying…
I also am very selective about what I eat before I fly. I call it the Last Supper. It could refer to Jesus and his last supper BEFORE he was crucified, or an inmate on death row and their final supper. Pick one neither is a good thing. I don’t want the plane to be going down, and I am thinking: “I should have had the lobster!”.
So with my Keyser Soze suitcase, my vagina breathing travel pants, and my hoping that I hear “This is Captain Sully” and not: “This is Captain Skippy, and his trusty co-pilot, Rusty”.
I begin my stew of nonsense journey…

Chapter One Hundred Forty: Keyser Soze abroad…

I am going on a trip overseas. I am very excited. After being sequestered, in place for the last year, I feel like a bird about to be free from its cage. I imagine myself in the airport all chic and matching, gliding through the international terminal, destination unknown. I am Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn! I toss my perfectly wrapped scarf around my neck in a “Je ne sais quoi” fashion. My overly large sunglasses scream “Film Star!”
Unfortunately, this is fast-lived as Confused Husband brings home my new luggage. I am no longer Grace Kelly. I am more like Marge Simpson. It looks like something Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High would use to transport his dope in, or one of the Golden Girls lost her luggage and, Confused Husband found it. The cornucopia of garish colors used to paint this LUDICROUS beach scene on the outside of my suitcase. It is a row of surfboards as though they are surfboard criminals in a police line-up. I am wondering which surfboard is Keyser Soze, in the line-up.
Perhaps it was a cheap freebie from a Vegas win. Whatever, it screams DUMB AMERICAN traveling abroad. I imagine well-seasoned travelers with their matching expensive – luggage snickering and shaming me as I walk past wheeling this stew of nonsense behind me.
I envision my luggage being- mocked by the other bags in the cargo section on the plane. Like, the kid at recess whose mother forced him to wear the salmon-colored crochet sweater that she attempted to make for him. Ridiculed and called names by the other bags. Alone in the corner at the bottom of the plane.
I will look like a cartoon character wheeling my bag through the airport. I attempt to explain this to Confused Husband, who retorts: “No one will even notice!” Coming from the man who notices NOTHING, NADA, RIEN. He would be the absolute WORST witness in any situation. I cannot rely on his opinion. I ask One Too Many(teen son). He informs me to: “Hang ten and how gnarly my bag is!” and goes on a surfer dude reenactment. I know he is doling out this parody of a pantomime at my expense.
I explain to Confused Husband that I want to be taken seriously as a traveler and NOT look like an Idiot Abroad.
The expression on his face says it all. He has zoned out and is probably imagining, all of the fun he will have when I am gone. He says: “It’s a good suitcase and expandable. Who cares what the outside looks like?” I begin a text thread of my suitcase debacle. Daughter number three suggests I wrap it in vinyl. Daughter number one sends laughing emojis. Son-in-law wants me to keep it.
I decide if my suitcase looks like a stew of nonsense, at least my travel ensemble won’t. I GOOGLE: “Chic travel outfits” and pull up several ideas. Of course, the models in the photos are six inches taller than me and weigh as much as one of my legs. I then get on Amazon and search for comfy travel pants. I find a gorgeous color one, yet the description is less than desirable. It states: “Traps moisture! Allows your vagina to breathe! I was not aware my vagina needed oxygen? Does this mean I can pee in them on the plane? Do they have those astronaut diapers built in them? I wonder if I can fashion them into a face mask? I get on the live chat and speak with someone named Yvonne. I am asking her what I think are legitimate questions. Yvonne doesn’t seem to like her job. I can sense her snippy attitude through her typing. I wasn’t the one who wrote the pant description! I wonder aloud if perhaps Yvonne has never even read the depiction of the company that she works for?
She suggests that I wait until they arrive and then try them on. I ask if they have built-in Depends? Yvonne asks: “What are Depends?” I type in adult diapers. She types back that perhaps I need to look in the incontinence section. I type back that I am not incontinent, but am curious to know about the traps moisture part of the advert. I then explain how my hot flashes make me all sweaty and discombobulated. I also point out that I have to tinkle a lot. Somehow, I get disconnected from Yvonne.
I turn my attention to my Keyser Soze surfboard suitcase as I now dub it. I have to make sure that as much as I can hide the LUDICROUS beach scene. I consider spray painting it but then worry about the fumes seeping into the interior of the case and all of my stuff reeking of spray paint. I even contemplate wallpapering it. I just do not have the bandwidth to deal with this.
Confused Husband looks like one of those Price is Right models as he demonstrates all of the bells and whistles that come with the Keyser Soze surfboard model. (Relax Bucko! It’s just a suitcase!). This pitiful Willy Loman-Esque demonstration is making me queasy. I must deter from this atrocity and have the attention brought to my fashionable traveling attire.
I leave Confused Husband and Keyser Soze alone, and immerse myself in Googling my future stylish traveling outfit, just in case the vagina breathing, moisture trapping pants don’t work out. I begin to chat with someone named Thom and wonder if he pronounces his name TH-OM like TH in thing? Or if it’s Tom? I ask since I need to make sure he is on my side, unlike Yvonne with the attitude. He writes back that it is actually pronounced PHOM. I want to type “WHAT THE PHUCK PHOM!” but decided against it. I share with Thom pronounced Phom the abomination that Confused Husband wheeled into our home. I explain the Keyser Soze surfboard line-up that dominates the outside of the suitcase. Thom/Phom types back: “Who is Keyser Soze?” ”Exactly!” I type back he then sends me question marks. (I really need to find employees on these live chat things that know what is going on!)
I type back: “Unlike caring that Keyser Soze is actually Kevin Spacey, and not a made-up person, my Keyser Soze surfboard debacle literally exists!” Thom/Phom types back: “Kevin Spacey is a pervert!” I type back: “Yes, but we didn’t know this when he was Keyser Soze! Look, Thom/Phom I am trying to find out if the women’s flowing floral skirt has pockets? because if it does I want to order it in case the breathable vagina, moisture trapping pants don’t work out for me. I am channeling my inner Audrey Hepburn/ Grace Kelly to draw the attention away from Keyser Soze and focus on my chic travel ensemble.”
Thom/Phom types back:” I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be talking about your vagina to me.” I am FLABBERGASTED! I type back:” YOUR company talked about my vagina! Or, as a matter of fact, their female consumer’s vaginas NOT me!” (They honestly need to give a tutorial to their employees on their products!). Thom/Phom disappears from the screen. I investigate and decide to order the:” Women’s flowing floral skirt” anyway.
Meanwhile, Confused Husband comes into the room wheeling, Keyser Soze behind him. It is like his new friend or pet. He smiles and says: “Just taking it for a test drive!” I glare at him and mutter: “It’s NOT a new car!” (he is a HORRIBLE salesman!).
He asks: “What are you doing?” I retort:” Trying to disguise Keyser Soze by purchasing breathable vagina, moisture trapping travel pants.” …