Tommy K on Everything

I was once tasked with having to draw a picture for my dad in the first grade for father’s day.  We were supposed to draw something that we had in common or an activity we enjoyed doing with our dad.  My drawing was two stick figures sitting at a stick kitchen table that had on top of it, a giant bottle of ketchup.  We both really liked ketchup.  For a long time, that was the art he kept in his office.

Not ever really being a “joiner,” I did the bare minimum of extracurricular activities in high school to get into college.  I participated in the literary magazine contributing a profound and moving ode to ketchup.  I read it recently and it is only matched in ridiculousness by absolute and affected teenage suffering.  I showed it to my parents and they asked if I was on drugs.

A girlfriend of mine used to joke that I didn’t like food.  I only used the food as a vehicle for ketchup.  It would look gross if I sat down with a bowl of ketchup and a spoon.

My husband loves to cook and is terrific at it.  Frustration would overpower the accomplishment he felt whenever I slathered oodles of ketchup on whatever he had just cooked up.  He doesn’t take it personally anymore.  I love ketchup.

Ketchup on eggs, ketchup on macaroni, ketchup on everything.

A while ago I bought a beautiful piece of art to add to the dining room that fully expresses my thoughts:

 

Trippin' on Travelin'

I am scared of flying.  Not so much of the heights, I find the airplane so darn claustrophobic.  This is why I prefer window seats.  The trip is more peaceful when looking at the plots of land and how they’re divided.  A few wispy clouds are alright too.  Truth be told, I still take a Clonazepam if it’s a morning flight or a couple of cocktails if the flight is after noon.  Friday’s flight is at 10:15 am.  I might just consider that close enough to noon.

Not being in control scares me the most.  When the plane is preparing to land, I slam my foot down on the imaginary brake in front of me to help out.  You’re welcome other passengers.

I try to not make a big deal about the actual flying part; I don’t really need to add to my neuroses.  I have a routine and that seems to help.  I guess routines would make a lot of things in my life easier, but I just find them so…routine.

I have started to make my bed every day, so I guess there’s that.

Bobaloo won’t just drop me off at the airport, he actually walks in with me and watches me go through the security checkpoint and waves goodbye when I go down the escalator to the tram.  Sometimes before that, we’ll sit at the bar and have a couple of farewell beers.

I touch the outside of the plane before I get in and pray for a safe trip.  I buckle up and get settled in my window seat and usually don’t make small talk with the person next to me.  If it’s a turbulent flight, I try not to make other people nervous.  I do not leave my seat, ever.  I have never been in an airplane bathroom.

I put my headphones on and read a book.  Usually, I can’t focus enough to read for real.  So I pretend to read a book.  Pretending to read is relaxing too.  I downloaded some new tunes for this trip.

It takes me an hour and a half to get where I am going. 

My dad picks me up and takes me straight to the bar for a couple of drinks before heading back to the house where my mom is waiting.

This post makes me sound like an alcoholic.  I’m not.  I just really don’t like flying.