Home is Where My Hummus Is

10 07 2008

It would be a significant understatement to say that I am not a great traveler. And I don’t just mean big long vacations to far away places. Any kind of travel. Week long descents into hell trips, overnight excursions, even traveling to someone else’s house for food that I did not prepare and is therefore subject to suspicion supper is tough for me. I hate driving and I hate flying. I hate hotels and I hate pull-out couches. I hate suitcases and I hate not having access to everything I own at any given moment. I am, in fact, a terrible traveler because I am, in fact, a giant control freak.

In the past week, the Blister family has hit the road on three consecutive afternoons to travel to three red meat o ramas barbeques. Then we drove four hours to spend a night at the Mr.’s mom’s house, followed by another night at the Mr.’s mom’s family’s lovely lakeside cottage, then another five hours on the road to get home. We’ve been surrounded by family, friends, food and lots and lots of booze fun for days, and although I had a fine time everywhere we went, and feel spiritually recharged, physically, I feel like there’s an angry, spoon wielding troll trying to dig his way out of my innards crap. I can appreciate the good parts of traveling – the people, the places, the new experiences that become cherished memories – but I can’t ignore the parts that make me detest being away from home for any length of time. My spastic colon and sciatic hip body just won’t let me. Too many days without my crazy hippie health freak usual diet of boneless skinless chicken breast, whole grains, chick peas, veggies and berries, and too many nights sleeping without my obsessively constructed cozily arranged nest of pillows makes for one bitchy Blister some considerable discomfort.

No doubt, some of my traveling discomfort is also born of stress. The kind of stress that most of you lucky bastards people who don’t have Squiggles the Dictator, Professor Neener, and Roo the Rock Eating Volcano Girl three children under the age of six can not even fathom. It takes an inordinate amount of time and space to pack up all the things we need for even the most basic day trip. The Blister Sisters have a rider explicitly stating that they require a fully loaded ipod with 50% Little People songs and 50% alternative rock, a dvd player with at least 3 Baby Einsteins to pick from, a dozen books including 4 from the Captain Underpants collection, two magnadoodles, a bag of assorted plush, musical and teething toys, and snacks (including but not limited to bottled water, cherry juice, peeled oranges, organic blueberries, marbled cheese strings, and smarties with all the brown ones removed) are easily entertained when we’re on the road, but the military precision with which we execute our travel plans inevitably takes its toll. Usually on my digestive system in the form of constipation, and on my nerves in the form of a relentlessly twitching eyeball. I’m Domestic Blister, and not the Well-Heeled Traveler for a reason, you see.

What it all boils down to is that my body is used to my bed, my food, and my bathroom. Even if my mind is enamored with the thought of running far far away to some exotic locale, possibly alone picturesque scenery, breaking away from routines, and family adventures, the fact remains that any extended deviation from the comforts of home causes my body to rebel. And travel is just one big pain in the ass deviation. So, I’ll be spending the next few weeks firmly planted at home, where I can hide from the life-on-the-road buffet of red meat and white bread, safe within the pureed garbonzo bean goodness of hummus and carrot sticks. Where each night my pillow nest waits for me and my sciatica to climb in at the crack of 9 pm a reasonable hour. Where my eyeball only twitches for half hour intervals, and if I’m going to be constipated, at least it’s on my own time and my own toilet. For the next few weeks, if anybody wants to pry this old barnacle from her rock, they’d better make me us a pretty sweet offer. Like the position of head chef, a king sized memory foam bed, and a private en suite bathroom stocked with laxatives and eye-twitch stopping pills. In the meantime, I’ll be making myself at home in the only place I truly can: My newly beloved Blisterdome. And you’re all welcome to visit. I’ve got a big tub o’ hummus waiting in the fridge.




2 responses

11 07 2008

Is this the same blister that used to make fun of me because I had difficulty using the bathroom away from home? Funny how a circle is a wheel!
I know exactly how you feel!Just when your body starts to adjust , it’s time to go home. makes you understand why Dorothy clicked her heels and said”There’s no place like home” She was probably constipated!

11 07 2008

So clearly, this is all your fault then! It also seems that Squiggles is the only one of my kids who has not inherited the same tendencies. That kid can and does poop anywhere.

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