Post #BlogHer11 in Which BlogHer is Like Chuck Norris and I Melt Away

I think instead of BlogHer they should call it “ChuckNorrisHer” because it kicks ass in so many ways, to include your own. I feel a thousand-years-old, and could nap a week and still not feel any better.

Do you know what sucks about being in the land-that-doesn’t-ever-get-above-seventy-five-degrees for almost a week? Coming back to hundred-degree-plus heat that bitch-slaps you in the mouth, and I hadn’t even exited the plane yet.

My flight back had a forty-minute connection in Houston. As we taxied to the gate, the flight attendant came over the radio to ask that we all close our shades to keep it cool for the next flyers. Really? I thought to myself..  and I obliged, promptly stood up, and, as I approached the gate, the heat smacked me upside the head like I owed it money.

My next flight was even worse, like we were in a heated can of tuna, and the douche that sat next to me wouldn’t stop opening his window shade. I wanted to smack his hand and tell him the flight attendant told him to keep it closed, but the attendant had said that on the previous flight, not this one, and he probably would’ve thought me insane had I have done so. “Some crazy lady just smacked my hand!” Plus the woman next to me was a little scary with her fancy-schmancy Kindle and eighty-karat ring, so I abstained, and sat sweatily in my middle row, agonizingly bearing down, hoping the fifty-minute flight would be done sooner than later.

My husband and I were furiously texting one another while I was waiting for my bags at baggage claim.

“Are you done now?”
“How ’bout now?”
“Where are you?”
“Did they lose your bags?”
“The kids are about to set fire to the van if I have to circle the airport one more time, baby.”
“Are you done yet?”
“Are you even alive?”

(My bag was second-to-the-end, m’kay? Not my fault. I suddenly wanted to channel Joe Pesci from ‘Lethal Weapon 2″ and shout “They f*** you at the drive-thru baggage claim, okay?!” but I contained myself in my texts.)

Finally got everything jerry-rigged in such a way I could wheel it awkwardly to the outdoors, and he texts me to wait by the curb. Even in this parking area, the heat made me feel squeezed like my cheeks did by my grandmother when I was little. Everything weighed a-thousand-pounds, and I ached in places I didn’t know could ache.

But the smile from Baby Dude I saw over fifty-feet away when my husband pointed me out at the curb suddenly melted away my physically melting there on the sidewalk. I could almost hear him calling me through their deliciously air-conditioned van on the approach. (Thank God for air-conditioning, yo!)

Y’know, I was used to this oppressive heat before this trip, and doing just fine with the whole, shallow breathing, taking minuscule baby steps, not ever walking barefoot because I like the skin on my feet, and living in the sun either soaking wet or shaded. But this? With what seems like entirely too many clothes hanging off me, and sweat suddenly dripping into my eyes constantly, this sucks all over again!

(I have yet to find where they bottled the San Diego weather and gifted it to us in our swag bags, dammit.)

A real post-BlogHer update to come soon, though. As soon as I can remember my name without a badge, and drink approximately 800 cups of coffee while decimating a jar of peanut butter. And maybe a three-day nap wouldn’t hurt, too.

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