It’s been too long since I sat in this chair and punched out a proper post. It’s been more than 12,960 minutes (or 9 days) since I’ve been gone y’all. The whirlwind that was AK Vackay 2006 completed, like K-Fed’s skeezy corn rows, I’m back.

The 13-hour trip from Anchorage to Orlando was fairly uneventful. The jet departed on time and on course at 12:55 am. Sleepy and a bit sad - I wasn’t ready to leave Maaa and the munchkins, and I had that nostalgic/home sick/the-flood-gates-are-about-to-bust type tickle in my throat - once boarded, I immediately hunkered down with a felt blanket, closed my eyes and went to sleep. But first, because cabin pressure causes your feet to expand, I kicked off my clogs.

I only woke up a couple of times during the 5 hour flight to Salt Lake. Once I was craving soy crisps and cranberries, so I fed my face. Twice I opened my eyes, startled and aghast, when my drool, extreme in its volume and dispersion, soaked right through my blanket.

Seriously, it was like a freaking tidal wave had gone through. Forget about stop, drop and roll. If I was ever in a fire, I’d do just as well to stop, drop and drool.

Anywho, when the plane touched down, I gathered my carry-ons, slipped on my shoes, and exited the aircraft. As I got to the jet way, I began to feel a discomforting pain –and no, it wasn’t in my ass; the kittinks and Angel were home in Florida after all. *ba dum bum ching*

No, the pain was in the meaty part of my foot, right behind the toes, just before the arch. With every step I took, the vexatious sensation became more and more excruciating.

As I ambled toward the terminal, I began quietly cursing the airline and its pressurized planes.

I imagined my feet - like Beyonce’s voluptuous booty - had grown to elephantine proportions. And by the time I made it to a seating area, I was wild with panic.

With much apprehension, I sat myself down and looked toward my tootsies. I was prepared for ginormous and grotesque. I was not prepared for what I actually saw.

With neck careened to the carpet, imagine my delight and discomfiture when I saw this:

Apparently the fact that I do everything ack-basswards translated into a tricky sitch when, upon deplaning, I put my clogs on the wrong feet.

No, I am not six. Yes, I am special.
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Addendum OK, so I just checked my e-mail. With “ahem” in the subject line, hannihaus reader, sent a link to this.

Sheesh. And I thought I made the jokes around here.
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