TBGCThe Alaskan
Saga... TBGC
Day One
First, I went to bed at 3:00 a.m., tossed and turned most of the night, finally said
fuck-it at 6:00 a.m., got dressed, nearly forgot to put my dresses in the suitcase, then
nearly forgot to put the rings for my parents in the suitcase, then actually got
everything loaded into the car before I realized I hadn’t packed my vibrator. I know.
So, on the drive to pick up my Squishy, who is accompanying me, I took a gratuitous
couple-love shot! Cock-sucker lips unite! (Sorry, baby, couldn’t help myself.)
And this is my Squishy.
Now, we got to the airport at 9:00 a.m., the plane didn’t take off till 12:10 p.m..
Our party slowly started to trickle in and by 10:30 a.m. everyone was there... except my
aunt and my grandmother, who had apparently just left the house. It takes a solid hour to
drive from Houston to the airport. They did make it, though, just as the plane was
boarding. The flight itself is seven hours, but these are shots out the window as we got
close to Anchorage.
We get to the airport, get the luggage, get it tagged (which was a fiasco and would have
gone much smoother if everyone had just let me do it, but nooooo). So this is me finally
smiling like the big goof-ball that I am, because with everything done, I can start to
relax. (Or so I think. Just wait till day two)
The bus comes, we load onto it, move a little and stop at another terminal to pick up some
more passengers. Now, I’m on the back of the bus, can’t see anything, because,
again, fuck it, I want to just breathe for the first time in a month. However, as we start
to move fifteen minutes later, my grandmother stands up and says that three of our party
haven’t come back yet. So, I get up, run into the airport, get them and herd back. As
I’m getting on the bus, the other passengers are laughing and saying things like,
“got ‘em all?” and “that was quick.” Apparently, while I was
running, several of them were watching me, saying, “Look at her go!” and my
mother and Squishy were saying, “Please don’t let her twist her ankle. Please
don’t let her twist her ankle.” Which is remarkable similar to what I was saying
to myself.
Finally, everyone gets on the bus and we start moving. Thirty minutes later, I’m
sprawled over my seat doing deep breathing exercises because the vibrations of the bus
have me one small step from blowing chunks, but if I had actually thrown up, at least I
would have done it to a fabulous view.
Now, as we’re watching the beautifully scenery (and trying not to decorate the bus in
regurgitated chicken sandwich) my brother’s five-year-old son, Ash, is bouncing
around, giggling manically, and poking us. Not that we mind, but for a kid that
didn’t sleep the entire plane ride, we were pretty surprised at his energy... until
we found out that when my Dad bought him a soda, he couldn’t find Sprite, so he got
him something that looked similar. Turned out that something was Vault:
"drinks like a soda, kicks like an energy drink." My brother didn’t notice
till Ash had finished the entire bottle.
After another half hour of deep breathing and “please god, don’t let me throw
up, please god, don’t let me throw up,” we get on the ship. This is our room:
This was our view:
