OK, so maybe I’m not so much of a world traveler as a back and forth to Iowa traveler.
The past two weekends I’ve found myself in opposite ends of Iowa, partying it up with some of my fave family members starting with Prince and Princess B.
I hadn’t seen my hell on wheels duo since January and being that they’re now two and a half no moment spent with them is dull.
My sister typically stocks up on my beloved Anderson Erickson chip dip (seriously the best dip on the planet and my ample ass can prove it!) for me but Princess B had other plans.
We also ganged up and loved on our favorite Hawkeye, Dada CBXB.
After a two night layover back in my own Nashville bed, I headed up to see my spunky Gma (you know, the one who pretends to hate Jell-O shots and wheels around the town square in style) as she’s not been feeling fabulous recently.
I also found myself willingly stuffed in a trunk for the sake of a birthday surprise for my fabulous friend Mr. Scooby.
My bestie Scooby flew me into Des Moines to surprise his hubs, Mr. Scooby for his birthday. This trip also served as a way for Scooby and myself to get shit faced at the finish line while his hot husband and equally good looking running mate, Royal, sprinted 13.2 miles at the annual Dam to Dam.
A little too much excitement in the collecting of champagne bottles resulted in a bubble catastrophe in the grocery store. I swear my two bottles of wine at supper had nothing to do with it.
But the spill was definitely worth the trouble as Scoobs and I tailgated at the finish line at the ass crack of dawn the following morning.
We also mustered enough energy to engage in a photo shoot while waiting for our runners.
After drinking the day away, we kept it up by cocktailing with a fellow classmate, Rolo.
After our 118th cocktail of the day, we decided that Scooby looks like the dad from the ’80s TV show “Alf”.
Don’t you agree?
Although a whirlwind of a time, it was a spectacular weekend seeing my gays who make me belly laugh so hard I count it as an ab workout.
There was one teeny, tiny kink in my flight back to Nashville.
It took off at 6am.
I woke up at 5:15am.
This wouldn’t be such an issue in any other booming metropolis but the thing is this was the one and only flight out of Nashville via Southwest on Sunday. My hungover ass had to make the plane.
At 5:39am I announced my arrival at the airport running in, screaming like a crazy lady at the Southwest ticketing agents:
“WILL I MAKE A SIX AM FLIGHT?”
“You have a slight chance but your bag will never make it.”
Throwing my suitcase at the agent (while thanking her at the same time), I turned into an Olympic runner barreling through security (thank god for salt of the earth, nice, understanding Iowa people who suggested I budge when they saw dust at my feet due to my sudden athletic abilities) and sprinting to my gate in just enough time to dry heave (my body is only used to me doing arm curls in order to get a cocktail to my watering hole) when I sat in my seat as the airplane door slammed shut 30 seconds after my entrance.
And you know what? Even with my beyond late check-in, the suitcase made the airplane.
As this post comes to a close, I’ve received word that things aren’t looking so hot for my Gma and your good karma sent her way would be much appreciated as my family and I hope she’s resting comfortably.
And as I am giving my liver a rest, here’s hoping your week is off to a fabulous start!