Monthly Archives: February 2013

Jet Lag, A Natural State of Drunkeness

When I was in my early twenties, and certainly never before I was twenty-one, I would find myself in a state of fog. Perhaps this was alcohol included fog, unless you have photos, I may never admit to it. We can all relate to this “fog”, the one where you think you’re handling yourself really well. You carry on coherent conversations, wax philosophical, and look really, really good. At least you think you do. When in all reality for us ladies, your mascara is probably smudged around your eyes, your forehead is a bit sweaty, your nose is shiny, and those cheeks are giving off that tell-tale pinky color. If you’re of the male species, your forehead is sweaty as well, your eyes are a bit droopy, and your undershirt is sticking to you like you’ve just completed an Iron Man. You’ve probably repeated yourself three times, slurred at least five, but when you did, you stopped, slowly corrected yourself and thought, “not too shabby, they have no idea I’m drunk!”

It’s all fun and games until the next day you realize, I don’t remember 85 percent of last night. That’s what jet lag is like to me. Without the hangover thankfully! I’ve traveled internationally quite a few times in my short life, and hope to be so fortunate that I can experience the delights of jet lag many more times. The thing about drunkeness and jet lag is that you remember the most unimportant details of your travels. You can’t recall where the hell your shoes are, but you know that the guy who tried to buy you a cocktail was wearing a “Tapout” t-shirt. Hey, at least he has gumption if no style sense. And you can recall that the flight attendant had purple nail polish, but where on earth did you jam those customs forms!? The fun continues when you land and bumble your way through the immigration interview, the man at the end of the line asks if you have any trail mix or beef jerky. Seriously? I just told him I had some baby food, and he comes up with trail mix and beef jerky? Yup, my ten month old just loves her some beef jerky!

The fog continues for the next two days I’m convinced. You put on a straight face, and act like an adult. Yet, at the end of those two days when you finally feel less like an Alzheimer’s patient, you know you had conversations with people, but about what, you’ll never know. One day, I think I’ll try to enjoy jet lag, when I can lounge around for a couple of days, Charlie can feed and bath herself, and I won’t have to worry about who I told what to. Unless its Charlie and I told her she could date. Because that’s never happening.

OHM xx


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The Best Laid Plans

I’m a planner, sort of. Not one of those control freaks, down to the minute, exact details planners. I’m one of those, Libran planners. The ones who have a general plan but can’t make up their mind about the details until they ABSOLUTELY have to. I blame it on my star sign, it says I’m indecisive and anyone who knows me remotely well will agree. Becoming a mother really forced me to start planning a whole lot better. I’m a work in progress.

When I travel, I am forced to make concrete plans. Especially when traveling with an infant. My gorgeous Charlie is a blossoming ten and a half months now which requires both all the baby things, and big girl things. Boobs, and lots of distraction. Not at the same time of course, that’s just hazardous.

This trip, I traveled back to Colorado to visit my people, alone. Alone?!?! With a baby?!? Yep, you’re not the first person to say that to me. Especially after last night, when a shuttle bus full of Australians and myself checked into the Holiday Inn. Unexpectedly. Apparently a bird hit an engine on our plane. Unexpectedly. Unless it was a suicidal bird, but what can birds be so depressed about? They have wings! I digress, myself and many other passengers are “delayed twenty one hours and fifty minutes”. Awesome. Me, my baby, LA and a whole day to kill. Just when I was feeling pretty proud of myself for thinking I had all my plans sorted and would be passing this jumping bean of a baby off to my husband and family in Sydney very soon, the universe reminds me to tap into my inner Buddhist.

As I push my ten dollar SmartCarte from one terminal to the next so I can obtain my new itinerary and hotel voucher I panic. One wrong bump will send my overpacked suitcase off the edge and my zippered chaos will be unleashed on the sidewalk. Then I start thinking about the fact that I will have to unzip those monsters in the hotel. I feel as though I can hear the contents laughing at me. The little cans of green chiles are snickering, “are homemade burritos and enchiladas worth it? hahahahaha”, the five plastic canisters with these awesome rice puffs Charlie loves are shaking their contents ominously, shck, shck, shck. But they’re organic! I NEED them! Truth be told, Charlie wouldn’t care one way or the other if I didn’t jam those puffs in my cases. But I want Australia to see what’s out there, we need more and better options.


What the heck?! Oh, paparazzi. The gawker inside of me pokes her little head out for a minute. Who could it be? Anyone I care about? No! I tell her. As I near the scene it’s obvious the shutterbugs got excited over a nobody and they’re actually still waiting for their target to appear. I hear one of them cracking jokes, and some middle aged woman cackles as though he’s the celebrity! Get real, people. I then have to manoeuvre my cart and its overstuffed contents through this mass of lookielous who for whatever reason have no where better to be than near a celebrity for five seconds. I only ran over one woman’s heel with my cart as she did not get out of my way. All the while, in my head I’m thinking, “Lady with a baby!” Like that scene in Grease, when Rizzo thinks she is knocked up. As I make my way through the crowd I secretly hope this celebrity tries to rush out as I’m passing the doors and doesn’t have the path cleared for them. My baby is way cooler than any movie star. I’m sure all moms think that, and they’re right!

After I am past the mob I have a sudden rush of gratefulness. I can wear my baby, push my breast pads, cans of green chiles, 42 diapers, and 97 baby toys through LAX without someone snapping my photo. Except for the government, which is a whole other issue. It doesn’t matter that my make up has probably all been worn away by Charlie’s, “fountain on the mountain” ponytail. Or that the baby bjorn is squishing my back into a muffin top. I am free to be Charlie’s mom without the whole world judging me. Or, asking me what is in my suitcases, but I guess I just told them.

Now there are sweet little murmurs coming from the hotel crib, and I have Intelligentsia to get to. That gorgeous husband of mine says its the best coffee. Plus, it’s near the beach. Winning.


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