Home Really is Where the Heart is

First, the photo today was taken by my Aunt Georgie many years ago in Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. I have it posted over my writing desk as a reminder of Canada, a simple place that holds memories of a place I still call "home."

Though this past two weeks I've been in Houston, Texas, Atlanta, Georgia and just in and out of Bridgeport, Connecticut between last night and today,  home is where I want to be.

Travelling can be tough on you as a writer. Working, trying to hit deadlines and still have a clear mind to read and write isn't easy, but I am so blessed to have a supportive husband and family and a great job, so I'm not complaining.

But somebody should feel a bit sorry for me. I got the the airport in White Plains, New York, now come on, there's one thing, New York! Anyway, I'm standing behind a grown man who's wearing pajamas. No joke! Pajamas!  And he's got on Birkenstocks with red socks. Who dresses him?

I go through security and a woman takes off her jacket, because security tells her she has to. She only has a bra on! Now for those of you not well travelled, you don't have to do that. You just tell them you only have a bra on and they'll let you keep your coat on... that's if your a woman. So there I am, following a woman with only a bra on. The guard is slack-jawed, but by the time he closed his mouth she was through security and didn't even blink an eye! 

Next, I get on the plane and wedge myself into the ever-shrinking seat and wait for the door to close, hoping that the seat next to me will go empty. By now, most of you know my luck. Here he comes, all 437lbs of him and jams himself into the seat next to me. I'm trying to be polite and ask him if it might be more comfortable for him if I put up the arm rest between us. Dirty look. I do it anyway. Big mistake. He oozes into my seat, pressing me into the window. Literally.

Long story short. Try flying 2 hrs with your face pressed against the dirty window of a small plane, (no choice of your own) all the while, the big man continues to spead like oleo over the seats .Then  he pretends that its NOT him sending an odor like an old dog who ate rotting sausage into the air. I take it as long as I can, watching him bob up and down every time he had to poof, then finally said to him, "Hey! I can smell you over here, you know!" It was ugly. No it didn't stop.

Anyway, made it home safe. Got the manuscript out to the book club and am awaiting comments. It's a good day!