Staying Sane on the Plane

We the People who brave planes are intrepid.

Together we experience hours of discomfort high above the clouds – trapped, smashed, and irritated.

Our legs fall victim to numbness, time becomes a sinister enemy, and suddenly you begin questioning yourself, perhaps asking: “Why in the hell did I even sign up for this BS?”

The answer is simple. You needed to travel somewhere far, and your futile attempts to learn how to fly as a child just never panned out.

Folks, it’s that time of year…the holiday season, otherwise known as over-priced, voluntary torture time.

Maybe you’re visiting loved ones in a small town nobody has ever heard of. Or perhaps you’re fleeing from them, squatting on a deserted island under your kicky new pseudonym…Ginger Gilligan.

Either way, your sorry little butt is going to be on a plane.

So, I thought we could make the unbearable slightly bearable by sharing flying tips. I’ll go first and you can put your two cents in down below.

If I get enough awesomeness in the comment section, I will create a follow-up post next week. Those of you with websites will be linked accordingly.

To be included, I need your comments by midnight U.S. central on Sunday, November 18th.

Here we go!

Britt’s Tips for Staying Sane on the Plane

  1. Peppermint Oil  No more smelling your foul neighbor or the dirty diaper in the row in front of you. Plus, it’s a great pick me up. Dab a smidge of peppermint oil right beneath your nose and enjoy some untainted bliss.
  2. Sustenance  Water, tea, fruit, and nuts are a must! Airplane tea is dreadful so I bring my own tea bags and request hot water. My favorites are peppermint and lemon ginger; both are uplifting and soothe your tummy.
  3. Army of Entertainment  Don’t limit yourself here. There’s nothing worse than bringing a new book you just can’t get into. Be prepared with activities that will excite different senses. Most of us possess technological wonders hosting an array of diversions. I’m pretty old-fashioned: books, music, and a journal for writing.
  4. Covers & Layers  Come prepared for ridiculous temperature variations. Season pending, having a sarong, shawl, or blanket handy is always a versatile staple on and off the plane. Layers are crucial! You don’t want to be stuck in that lumpy sweater when it’s stuffier than a sauna.
  5. Comfy Cute  Save the fancy shoes and clothes for later. Trust me, you will not arrive at your destination looking anything less than disheveled. On another note, being comfortable should not mean wearing your pajamas in public. When in doubt, the jeans/flats combo works like a champ.

Now it’s your turn. How do you stay sane on the plane?

A Seasonal Perspective

Fall…is there anything more enchanting? The colors and scents are a charismatic feast for the senses, captivating every age with equal magnitude.

I never had seasons growing up, I had perfect Southern California weather. I know what you’re thinking. Oh, poor Britt! That must have been unbearable.

Honestly, in many ways…without seasons I missed out.

I didn’t get to crash into a pile of leaves, fashion snow angels, or smell flowers come back to life. My wardrobe was the same year-round–no fun boots, coats, or other toasty accessories.

Profoundly in tune with the seasons, our bodies are cyclical. Even if the climate reflects idyllic conditions in the form of sunshine and clear skies, the absence of seasons can be strangely unsettling. Year after year, the comfort of the holidays is muted and the excitement for summer is ho-hum.

Post-Cali I spent seven cranky years in the sweltering heat of Texas. I’m a hot-natured person—big surprise—so boiling temps are definitely not my bag, baby.

Since moving to Wisconsin a few years ago, I have participated in all of the previously mentioned seasonal activities, fulfilling my childish wishes at long last.

Now that the seasons are mine to cherish, I could never live without them. By and large, fall is my favorite and I used my newly discovered infatuation to enhance the setting in Everything’s Not Bigger.

The main character, Jaye Davis, spends her childhood in Arizona and early adulthood in Texas, making her the catalyst for unearthing this overlooked notion, a missing link in her life. Upon traveling to Prague in October, she marvels at the basic nature she has always been denied.

An excerpt from Everything’s Not Bigger…

She halted on the sidewalk to soak in the beautiful tree-lined street. Prague in autumn was a breathtaking sight: striking mothers pushed strollers across gold, leaf-littered sidewalks; fat, daredevil squirrels darted between cars stockpiling nuts for winter; picturesque schoolchildren in plaid uniforms played hopscotch after school.

Every crunchy step she took over the brilliant leaves was a relishing moment. A stealthy breeze lifted the bottom of her coat, sending a tiny chill up her body. Everywhere it smelled like crisp foliage with the slightest hint of cinnamon.

Disrupting the magic, her stomach rudely reminded her of its incessant need for nourishment. Jaye opted to grab a bite at a street vendor, so she could spend the remaining daylight wisely, taking in the magical city at a snail’s pace.

And there at the street vendor, her exquisite autumn fantasy came to a bitter end. The mobile shed housed an impatient college kid, decorated with multiple facial piercings. Jaye investigated the menu bordering the top of the little window, and fidgeted with the strap of her handbag.

Jaye regarded the numbered images skeptically, head moving left to right, then right to left. Each bowl of goulash looked the same as its neighbor, and there were five choices. None looked edible.

After only one day, she felt homesick. Food had been the trigger.

Just as her grandmother and aunt had in their kitchen, Texas had one redeeming quality—the food was to die for. Tex-Mex, barbeque, and spicy brunches were available on every corner of Dallas. Due to deliciously fond memories of her grandmother’s cooking, she hadn’t thought much about Czech cuisine. Now that she discovered this goulash street buffet, Jaye realized her childhood menu was a Tex-Czech fusion—unfairly savory, and unavailable elsewhere.

Customers ignored her as she stood dumbly on the sidewalk. She crept away.

Out of nowhere she saw a godsend—Weasel Wich, a familiar American sandwich chain, its boring facade standing out like a hooker in a fancy museum. Surrounded on all sides by historic architectural gems, the cheesy signage was a little piece of home. She made a beeline for the doors, licking her lips at the thought of mediocre sandwich fare.

I promise this is the last book snippet I will bombard you all with. Thank you for obliging me and sharing your comments and feedback.

Everything’s Not Bigger releases this Saturday the 10th!

RELATED POSTS

Absinthe Trepidation

Style vs. Materialism

Trading Lives

Scottsdale: A Bruised Tale

Once upon a time there was a girl named Britt
She was always busy, she would never sit.
She wrote, she danced, she bounced up and down
Until she chanced upon a journey to a far away town.

To a castle in the desert, surrounded by palm trees and sand
The Fairmount Scottsdale Princess Resort, the fairest in all the land.
She left her midwest village and all that she knew
Twitter, Facebook, even her little blog, too.

Her knight would gather at the boisterous round table
Thus fidgety Britt must play princess in this curious fable.
She tasted many things she previously thought foe
Lobster, oysters, crab legs, even escargot.

Now you’re probably thinking these creatures are not from near
But armadillos and rattlesnakes do not to royalty standards adhere.
But the manners and servants were not to her liking
Best of all was an afternoon the court spent hiking.

Beyond the castle, she felt more comfortable in her skin
Though the lizards shunned her, she did her best to fit in.
Alas, a feast of all feasts was planned for that night
And she said farewell to the gallant sight.

Though you would think the bruised tale happened out here
On the dry treacherous landscape, Britt had no fear.
Instead in her silken gown and heels so high
Two steps before a fountain sent everything awry.


The pain made Britt swoon but she tried to save face
Little did she know she would soon need an ankle brace.
Britt’s knight in shining armor carried her in his arms
A damsel rescued from herself and her clumsy charms.

A bad sprain yes it was, a swollen shield so bruised
Laziness was forced upon her, she was not amused.
Hence the girl who would never sit now had no other choice
Propped up on a mountain of pillows, she did not rejoice.


The pina coladas did not console her on her poolside throne
She yearned for her simple life, to regain honor back home.
For who wants to be elsewhere when all is not well?
Vacation transforms into the cruel dungeon from hell.


Britt found solace in words, her chivalrous friends she could trust
She edited her book with her mighty sword pen, kicking up the dust.
Perhaps a jester is more fitting for a girl of this decree
For a princess of the desert, Britt shall never be.

P.S. For those who participated in the bobby pin poll last week, the correct answer is…drumroll please…88! Thanks for playing.

Come on, babe. Why don’t we paint the town?

And, all that jazz.

I’m not a musical theater buff in any shape or form. Harboring cheesy dance moves and peppy tunes that get eternally stuck in my head, I usually steer clear. However, there are exceptions.

I appreciate the dark and gritty, R-rated types…specifically Chicago, my all-time favorite. Give me glamorous femmes fatales and the unmatched genius of Bob Fosse any day.

Somehow I missed the boat, and have never danced to “All That Jazz”. Now you might be thinking…big whoop! But, it’s kind of against nature for a jazz dancer.

See, I was too curvy for tutus, too skeptical for interpretive dance—you know the kind where you’re supposed to actually be the tree—and too demure to crunk.

Jazz dancing has always been the right fit for me, a chance to sass and captivate. I could pretend to be back in the 1920s, a spunky cabaret dancer teasing the crowd and having a ball.

Recently, opportunity came knocking on my door.

Last Friday, RunUp 2012: The Roaring Twenties, a 1920s themed fashion show, gala, and costume party benefitting Froedtert and The Medical College of Wisconsin Cancer Unit, commenced at the Historic Pritzlaff Building here in Milwaukee.

Guess who finally got to perform “All That Jazz”?

A good friend of mine, Hannah (the striking blonde who looks like Roxy Hart’s twin) was choreographing, and offered up the gig to a select few—the Jazz hands experts. The four of us would serve as back-up dancers to Bjorn Nasett, a legendary entertainer making a comeback.

Last year I hung up my performance shoes. Enthusiastically, I took them down, tossed some fishnets on, and got my shimmying self back on the stage.

And, it was grand.

Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com

Sometimes I teeter on dualistic, an all or nothing kind of gal. This unexpected return to the spotlight taught me to rethink my stubborn ways, to be open to the right kind of opportunities.

Of all the times I’ve performed, I’ve only been paid once. Some years ago an envelope bulging with cash was hastily thrust into my hands before a ballet class, and it was weird.

Dancers don’t do it for money. The ones who do get paid earn peanuts.

As much effort as it takes, dancing for joy and pleasure has always made sense to me. It’s a special art I’ve known intimately all my life. It’s an honor to take people away, to make them smile, to encourage them to let go and have fun.

What happens on the stage is beneficial to everyone—the performers, the spectators, the choreographers and directors. To escape the grind for the sake of feeling good is a necessary perk of life.

In the words of Billy Flynn: “This trial…the whole world…it’s all…show business.”

If I can get my hands on some video footage of our performance, I will most certainly post. Until then, here’s a fun poll…I’ll reveal the correct answer at the end of next week.

Absinthe Trepidation

You know me. I’m usually on a health kick—carrots are the new chips, Yoga’s for everyone–you’ve even seen me hugging a water bottle.

But forget all that…let’s talk about absinthe!

Now I think of beer as my steady even though I engage in the occasional red wine flirtation. By no means am I an expert on absinthe, but I have always been intrigued by the Green Fairy. Haven’t we all?

For my second novel, Everything’s Not Bigger, Prague served as a primary setting. “Absinthe Trepidation” is one of the chapter titles.

When I was studying abroad in Germany many summers ago, a visit to the City of a Hundred Spires was imperative.

If you’re ever stumbled over my last name “Skrabanek”, know you are one of many, and you have my Czech heritage to blame for it. In elementary school, my principal called me “Brittney S.” during awards assemblies, because he just gave up.

An easy pronunciation trick—it sounds similar to “bubonic” as in Bubonic Plague. Forevermore may you remember me when you think of a catastrophic illness. Wait…please don’t do that.

Furthermore, Eastern Europe was one of my areas of concentration in college. And one of my professors said he would only give a recommendation for my study abroad application if I swore to go to Prague.

He called me “the proud daughter of the Czech Republic” in class all the time. So, I went.

Prague is certainly one of the most enchanting cities in the world. Miraculously unscathed during World War II, it boasts historic wonders like you wouldn’t believe.

Back in 2004, absinthe was illegal in a good portion of the world. As such, it was heavily marketed to curious American tourists like myself visiting the Czech Republic.

Too apprehensive to drink it on my own, my fiance (present day hubby) and I had the bright idea to smuggle it back to the States in a Listerine bottle, so we could try it together.

I know, I know. Bad, Britt!

I sweated bullets at Stuttgart Airport security, believe me. I’m one of those people who often gets caught, but it doesn’t always stop me from participating in crazy shenanigans.

But, I made it home with the forbidden loot.

Even though I had washed out the mouth wash bottle a thousand times, the absinthe and spearmint had morphed into one. Needless to say, trying a shot was deeply unpleasant.

We knew nothing about the rituals of absinthe preparation. Now I am aware of the calculated art to drinking the beverage…and we absolutely disgraced it. Hey, we were pups!

Knowing my shameful stint wasn’t much to work with, I decided to do some book research on the drink by watching Absinthe the documentary.

Automatically absinthe stirs the imagination, embedding visions of mad painters and conniving fairies dancing in circles with bulging, iridescent eyes.

Lo and behold that’s all a bunch of boohockey—early twentieth century propaganda. It was a formidable scheme cooked up by the green drink’s competitors of the time–the wine and beer merchants whose businesses had floundered during absinthe’s peak.

I’m mesmerized by the care absinthe lovers show to the rebellious drink, appreciating it for its rarity. More than anything, I applaud absinthe for its sustainability against all the odds, resurrecting after bans, enticing still to this day.

Absinthe has been said to bring out one’s inner poet.

I think it carries a romantic notion, a feeling of the past when Bohemian artists created zealously and lived with abandon. There is no other drink quite as controversial or mysterious. Even though the myths have been widely debunked, I think the elusiveness will continue for centuries to come.

What about you readers out there…have you tried absinthe?