There are a number of mangled thoughts that crash through your head when suspended 3,000 feet over the clear blue waters of the Bermuda Triangle in a single engine prop plane. Like how did that Aaliyah "Rock Da Boat" song go? Is the water so light because it's dangerously shallow? How the fuck did I get here and who do I think I am? Was it really advisable for Boy George to bring Marilyn along for his island detox? Are death spirals in this year? And, of course the big one:

"So I'm having this fantasy," I muster an anxious crotch grope from my left hand. "I want to give you a blow job while you fly."

"No," Alan's eyes remain steely and forward. "I have to fly the plane."

We're on a post-Thanksgiving starch romantic getaway to the Bahamas for some ridiculous reason (namely, the weather at our original destination New Orleans would have been enough to toss the airplane over to Texas) and I'm fighting off my fear with sexless sexiness. It isn't working. In my ears, the ceaseless "Romeo alpha blah blah" aviationisms of middle-aged men are plotting elevations while my mind rattles through the myriad of pop cultural declines. I am uneasy. I may well be Anna Nicole Smith.

"Slur-bee, slur-bee, slur-bee, slur!" I tipsily throw my arms up against the cockpit roof. "I want to make veeee-deos!"

"Shut up!"


By the time we land at the Nassau airport, my bombshell swirliness has given way to a wretched palor and a tightening chest. I don't fly well to begin with, but I especially don't fly well when there's still a tryptophan-and-vodka cocktail splashing against the rotting prison of my ribcage. I'd like to add panic attacks to the list of reasons I hate growing old, but that list has run out of pages. For now, I clearly need some medicine.

"You don't look good," Alan feigns concern while settling up whatever important paperwork flying yourself implies. "Daddy will get you a drink at the hotel."

I am Anna Nicole Smith. I am also starting to get dryly angry. In the hired car that's taking us to the airport on the wrong side of the road we're joined by two tedious commercial pilots, one of whom is an armchair pundit on the current economic crisis and refuses to shut up.

"I've been trying to buy a new car for three years," his penurious ramble begins, before creating some kind of theoretical prism involving auto industry fat cats, bad lending, foreclosure, poor people, bailouts and the never ending drain from the bottom of the kitchen sink.

Alan, naturally, pulls his best Larry Kudlow and follows along while my head presses harder and harder into the window glass, only occasionally pulling away to twist a pinched, fake smile in their direction. This is supposed to be the unfettered opulence of conscience-free gluttony. Last I checked there were no numbers in the word "vacation." Leave. Me. Alone!

The skies of my head clear soon enough when upon checking in, the wonder of all wonders is revealed. No, it's not the breathtaking views from the Wyndham Resort's numerous towers, nor is it the promise of fresh seafood and overheard conversations from wealthy British tourists in black socks. Instead, it's the receptionists revelation that there's a liquor store right here in the hotel, and it's duty free.

"Let's go get your medicine, Baby," Alan shuffles me along.

"Slurb-ee, slur-bee, slur-bee, slur!"

Only moments later, I'm holed up in the hotel room texting my friends back home things like, "I'm in the Bahamas! Where are u?" and "you should see the view from my beachside tower!" and "I'm Anna Nicole!" while Alan, wisely, vacates my meltdown to pursue his actual romantic version for being here, craps. Nurturing one's individual vices is well known to be the key to a successful marriage, after all, and who needs all of that sand between your toes when you've got a giant bottle of Stoli in your hands and a flat screen TV?

Besides, we are very happy and very much in love. There are no obstacles on the scenic horizon, save some pesky half-islands that could surely be cleared away by a hurricane. Ah, contentment.

Oh, Level 42. When I finally make it down to the required vomit-style carpet of the casino area, the skyscraper ‘80s lecture of "Lessons in Love" is bleeding from the speakers in a manner that takes me aback. This song isn't being played anywhere else in the world right now, and the "we could lose it, we should use it" coda comes in like a warning. Something horribly, horribly wrong is about to happen.

"I won $500 dollars," Alan reveals back up in the room before throwing a stack of twenties on my scantily clad bombshell body. "That's enough to pay for the gas and get us the room for free!"

"Slur-bee, slur-bee, what?"

Over my dinner of precisely four scallops served quaintly on four half-shells, Alan lets the rest of the fiscal hammer drop. Times are hard, see, and we're going to have to start watching our spending, or some such bullshit. This credit crisis is now officially ruining my life. Sob!

"But …" is all I can squeeze out without letting the fake veneer drop and hating myself.

"You'll be fine," Alan derives some sick pleasure from my display.

I'll be better after you find that empty bottle of methadone next to my lifeless, tangled body! RIP, Anna Nicole. Slur-bee … slur.

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