The Chicken Church and Other Tableside Travels


I used to travel, back in my twenties before marriage, before kids. Now I stay home with an older sister (who would otherwise be in a nursing home), one normal dog, and one little weirdo dog.
But I still get to travel. My friends are in Austria, Indonesia, Hawaii, Tahoe, and Guatemala, as we speak. They post photos on Facebook, lots of photos. I so appreciate them. As I drink my morning tea and think about tomorrow’s blog post, I have places to look at, stories to hear. It’s better than TV.
Brrrr. Austria looks flipping cold, Paul. Okay, the skiing might be awesome, but where is the sun?
Guatemala looks colorful, Sarah, but I think of the intestinal issues I had in South America and wonder if it would be the same for me in Central America.
Hawaii is gorgeous, but I’ve been there, and meh.
Tahoe — been there, done that. I guess if you are skier, Tahoe is your Mecca.
Indonesia? I can’t wrap my head around that. But Sharon, the chicken church is a hoot.
I’m a white knuckle flyer. Things are better since I discovered Ativan. My last flights were bringing Sis here from Iowa, so I couldn’t pop a pill.
“Yes, I’ll wheel her down the ramp,” said the Southwest gate dude.
I walked down the empty ramp, pre-boarded, put the carry-on in the overhead bin, turned around and saw the stream of people coming in the door. I threw my jacket over two seats and swam upstream to find my sister. She was parked outside the airplane, unattended. I had to get her out of the wheelchair, get her up into the plane (there’s a slight step) and down the aisle and into our seats while the throng of people behind me kept pushing us forward.
The airplane bathroom was a nightmare. Airplanes are not designed for handicapped people. Try getting a walker into that tiny space.
So much for pre-boarding.
All my friends are going dancing tonight, at a newly refurbished bar, ironically called the Chicken Pie Shop, which fits nicely with the chicken church theme. The band starts at nine, the same time I have to be home to relieve the home health care provider. So no Groove Doctors for me tonight.
It’s okay. Much as I love to dance, I hate the winter time slot of nine to midnight. I like to be in bed by 11:00 since the little weirdo dog gets me up at six. Daylight savings kicks in in eight days and will help with that. Then the doggie pair will wake me at 7:00, and maybe, in theory, I could make it dancing till midnight.
It’s a moot point right now. No low-paid caregiver will stay that late. So Facebook friends, keep those photos coming. I love the vicarious thrill of your Austrian ski town, your Guatemalan truck ride, your Indonesian chicken church.
Plus it gives me a topic for a blog post.
Guess what? There was a mix-up with the care provider, and she came an hour and a half late. That meant I got to stay out an hour and a half later last night. I got to go to the Chicken Pie shop for one hour and dance. To live music. With people.
So fun. Thanks, Paul, El, Philip, and Tom. April, Margo, David, Shirley and Jesse. Sioux with an X. Leslie. and Greg.
It’s enough to get me through.

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