The first time I saw Titanic, at the raw, green age of 13, my newly pubertized ovaries gave Leonardo DiCaprio the superlative of standing OVAtions (oh the wittiness) and so, he was dubbed the crown baby making partner.
Ever since then, I have had this insatiable urge (might it be my megalomaniac of a biological clock?) that I need to get myself to California. And so, here I am in sunny San Diego.
Leaving home wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be though. As I moved through the airport security at Logan, I found myself slogging knee deep through a gooey quagmire of the "I don't want to leave my mommy's".
I felt the compulsion to turn and wave to the parental unit not once, but four times. Good God, I’m such a boneless little fledgling.
However, any lame tears that I had stored up for the in-flight portion of the journey were soon transferred to the bigger fish to fry bucket.
Once the plane was up up in the air, I had the fret rug pulled out from under me to be replaced with wall to wall nausea. Suh-weet.
And damn it all to hell, if this wasn’t the one time that I was seated next to a decently attractive, non-creepy, young guy who, under less barfy circumstances, I totally would have fantasized about having an erotic romp in the airplane bathroom!
But no, I was too busy adorably dry heaving into the air sick baggy. Go me.
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