A Flippen' Japoinka Day.

Today, my first day in Pittsburgh, was sort of dramatic.

Of course.

I think the drama started when I was FINALLY boarding my very delayed flight at 1am and realized something was not quite right with my stomach. Chalking it up to travel-based nerves, I took my seat, chatted up the guy next to me for a half hour, (things learned in one half hour about Bill. He has 4 kids, all from in-vitro fertilization, his 13 year old daughter is becoming a handful, he loves ice fishing and hates English majors. Anyway, moving on,) and settled in with my impressive array of travel-aides. I am THAT woman with the lumbar pillow, the neck roll, the special NASA eye mask that you can open your eyes underneath (because it is very handy in case you want to stare into pitch-black-endless-dark for no reason at all,) and special socks because I have the cold feet of a 90 year old. Some people cope with red-eye flights by taking drugs or pounding scotch. I, on the other hand, just battle the discomfort of a long flight by looking like a giant beetle baby.

It helps. I was out within seconds.

And then I woke up. I was covered in sweat and my stomach was screaming to me that IT WAS ABOUT TO EXPLODE. THIS IS REAL. GET UP GET UP GETUP! I staggered to the bathroom and barely made it in time before I sank to my knees and vomited up what I believe to be an entire weeks worth of stomach content. I shook. I cried. (of course.) I vomited more. And more. And...well, more.

After a solid half hour of being curled up in a very uncomfortable position, I stumbled out to realize 15 people were waiting in line for the now defiled bathroom. My buddy Bill being first. I have never been more mortified. I have never wanted to jump out of a plane more in my life.

So you can imagine that greeting Brett and having a happy reunion was the last thing on my mind when I finally landed and skulked off the plane while 15 people glared at me. He called to tell me that he was running late because of a meeting, but he was on his way. I'm sure I wasn't graceful about that. In fact I'm sure I said something really snarky and then laid down on the floor in baggage claim.

Way to start things off right.

To his credit, Brett greeted vomity me with a big smile and a short term memory, seemingly having no recollection that I had, moments before, ripped him apart. My mood steadily improved, as did my stomach, and in no time I was eating a Pittsburgh salad (all cheese and fries and just a smidgen of lettuce,) quite happily. We napped, I showered, and then we walked around in the brisk fall air catching up on the last month of our lives.

As usual our initial interaction was like a first date: shy and formal and cautious. In no time at all though we were ribbing each other, especially when I was extolling the virtues of swearing. Brett jumped right into debate, exclaiming "Swearing is a crutch for those without the ability to conjure up better words to express themselves! IT'S A CHEAP WAY TO GET AN IMPACT!" I calmly told him that his opinion was in fact, wrong. I then continued to respond in the best way I know how- by making up swear words like "Frajackin'" and "Japoinka" and screaming those out gleefully anytime something alarmed/amused/frustrated me.

We kept this up on the way to the opera, and didn't realize that in the midst of our heated and ridiculous debate we had locked the keys in the car.

So, no opera for us. Instead, we met a nice man that helped us break in to the car from AAA, ducked in to a bar for scotch and chocolate cake, and headed home for some downtime. I wanted to encourage Brett to relax and live a little, and I thought fun books and blogs in bed would do the trick. Being the hard worker that he is, he rarely makes time for play. Being the hard worker that I am not always, I play pretty much constantly.

"Bring something fun to read in bed!" I called to him as I dragged my laptop under the covers with me. Moments later he curls up next to me on his side with an article titled: "What Is The Right Supply Chain For Your Product?"

We may not be perfect, but we're frajackin' ourselves.

That's not a bad thing to be.