The Sunset's Vibrant Echo

"Look at the rainbow!"
The shout comes from my dad, mid-movie. I glance up from my sewing, my aunt from her cross-stitching, my brother from his computer, and my mom from her coffee. A collective gasp issues from myself and all six family members in the room. A pause of wonder and awe passes, then a stampede.

I sprint downstairs to fish my camera from my suitcase, one aunt runs to her room, the other scrambles through the contents in her purse. Everyone is yelling.
I shove my feet into my little sister's extra-small abominable snowman slippers and sprint into the rain. The rainbow stretches like a colorful math-compass curve, measuring the sky. A lighter rainbow lurks behind it like a shadow of paint. One side ends in my neighbor's yard--I almost see the pot of gold. Instead of chasing the leprechauns, I turn the other direction and leave the shelter of the porch. I'm determined to capture the entire rainbow span in a single photo.

Across the soaking yard, into the sunlit rain, and through the mud-covered alfalfa field. It takes me ten steps to realize my sister will make me eat her slippers for my impulsiveness, so I leave them behind. As she puts it, "You left them in the pouring rain in a pile of mud!"
I'm so thoughtful...

In slipperless wonder I continue my escapade in my white No Nonsense socks. I trip over collapsing mole-tunnels and sacrifice my soles to half-grown crunchy alfalfa stalks. I'm reminded a half-acre later, that my lungs can never keep up with my feet so I slow and turn around to catch my breath and my rainbow. Sadly, as I ran, so did the sun and my rainbow arch grew twice its size. I'm in danger of losing my picture.
With a desperate breath, I continue the sprint and I learn a lifelong lesson--you can't outrun the sun. As the sun curls under its covers, it takes with it my rainbow--silencing it's vibrant echo. All that's left behind are grey clouds and drizzle.
Multiple snaps later, I trudge back to the house muddy, soaked, and suffocating, but exhilarated. Though I missed the magnificent, artshow-worthy photograph I envisioned, the sunset in itself almost matched the glory of the rainbow.

I peel off my mud-coated socks in the entry-way. My family has returned to the sappy Hallmark movie and my mom to her coffee. I trudge downstairs to spew my thoughts and euphoria onto my blog when my iPhone dings a hello. The message holds a picture caught and dominated by my dad's panoramic expertise. He had the decency to send it to me and I wish I could claim it as my own. Still, he caught what I chased and, as long as it's captured for eternity, I won't complain. Ten minutes later, I still can't breathe, but I count the sacrifice worth the prize as I stare at my personal rainbow.

Backward Bad Luck

Black cats, spilled salt, shattered mirrors, and rickety ladders.
I've seen and done all, jinxing myself with supposed superstition. By this point in life, I've tallied enough "7-years of bad luck" that I couldn't possibly outlive it all, so I've contented myself with the idea of a luckless life, whether luck exists or not (*cough* not).

Friday the 13th instills worry upon the superstitious population. Wikipedia--my never-ending source of shaky knowledge--defines fear of Friday the 13th as friggatriskaidekaphobia (don't fret, it took me three tries out-loud to pronounce it, too).
I do not suffer from friggatriskaidekaphobia (or any word that could pass as a scaly syllable-snake); in fact, I tend to spit on the calendar date and wait for it to spit back. So far, the spit of Friday the 13th has been made of sugar and surprises. On August 13, 2010, I attended a lovely wedding, I successfully packed the contents of an entire house into a shoe-box sized trailer, and I started what turned out to be a delightful drive to Missouri.

Today (May 13, 2011), I experienced a "2011 highlight day". It's joined my list of top 10 favorite days (roughly around fifth place) and filled every ounce of my water-and-blood-filled body with joy and urges to dance. My self-control and poise are both panicking at my antics. Sunny skies (after two days of snow), a writer's conference that's writing its way into my heart of cherished memories, and half-priced Starbucks frappuccino's. That's only the beginning. If this is bad luck, I'm it's biggest fan.

Cocawydamo Surprise

I knew something was wrong when my morning cereal tasted like dirt and acid.
My Honey-Bunches-of-Oat flakes looked crunchy and smelled delectable, but something about the aftertaste rang red like a tornado siren. Was it the cereal or was I borderline sick today? I opted to dump it out rather than force it down and then brushed my teeth more thoroughly than during a panicked pre-dentist hour.

The remainder of my Cocawydamo morning (pronounced: koh-kuh-why-duh-mow) flew by with good music and disjointed packing. In the next two and a half weeks I shall travel to Colorado (CO), California (CA), Wydaho (WY & ID), and then back to Missouri (MO). The word Cocawydamo reminds me of tropical things like coconut and Beachboy songs.

During the delightful, yet bittersweet ride to the airport, my man and I got Boba Tea (my favorite) and I snagged a Wendy's chicken sandwich to subdue my growling stomach. I thoroughly enjoyed every sip and bite. Hugs, prayers, and waves later, I entered the KCI terminal alone and reached my gate in approximately 7 minutes (trained in airport-efficiency by my world-traveling dad).
The flight progressed the same as my previous hundreds--polite hello to the person I'll be rubbing elbows with (unintentionally) for the next two hours, computer-voiced instructions for survival and safety, take-off thirty minutes later, Sprite with a few extra napkins to doodle on, pull out a good book and forget about the time.
The pre-descent turbulence came before I finished my current chapter. I pushed the limits of air-sickness tolerance, relying on my clean track record of no-hurling on airlines. Today, the limits pushed back.

I closed my book mid-chapter, cranked the plastic air vent, and shut my eyes--a foolproof way to avoid air-sickness. On a rebellious whim, my half-digested Wendy's and Bubble Tea decided to dance hip-hop. I've never been good at hip-hop and my stomach is clearly not a fan because it kicked out the dancers.
As the food-dancers meandered out of the stomach-door, my brainwaves turned frantic. I ripped open thought-drawers and rifled through papers of distraction (if you don't think about barfing it won't happen, right?). My brain settled on stringing together beautiful descriptive words for a blog post about throwing-up (no joke). For some reason, this didn't distract me (sarcasm). My breathing turned deep, loud, and desperate--embarrassing, but necessary. In a last plea, I mentally threw out frantic prayers that looked like, "God, please don't let me throw up!" on repeat.

We landed. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my stomach delivered a kick to the meandering dancers. Wendy's and Boba Tea raced hand-in-hand for freedom, emerging into the fresh air of a United Airlines cabin. I pulled out the blue sick-sack just in time to catch them. By God's grace, I made no sound (usually I'm very loud in this area of bodily functions). I could share many details, but I'll spare you and just say that I thank the Lord for my velum, for plastic lining, and for the spare napkins I never ended up doodling on (but put to good use).

Mortification, n., "the feeling one gets when throwing up on an airline elbow-to-elbow with a stranger after the plane has already landed."

I was thirteen the last time I threw up from motion-sickness (this includes cars, planes, ships/boats, and amusement parks). For eleven years I prided myself on my delayed gag-reflex--even bragged about it sometimes. Today it gets a spanking.

My row-neighbor said it was "okay" in response to my apology and asked if I felt better (if "better" means shaking, pale, and sweaty, then yes). The old lady across the aisle patted my arm and gave a sweet understanding smile. I ended the flight with a weak stagger to the exit, a personal vow to never fly after sketchy Honey-Bunches-of-Oats, a glare at the smiling pilot (though I know he's innocent), and a whisper to the nearest flight attendant:

"There's a sick-sack under a seat in row 13. Just letting you know."