my bahama psuedo adventure-part one

Ok, so the cruise was…interesting.

First, let me say that we are grateful to have gone, grateful that our flights were uneventful and the weather in Miami and the Bahamas was mild, if a little windy. And we are grateful to have gotten the heck outta New York and our tiny apartment. We might have lost what is left of our minds if we had to stay in for nine days straight. There’s very little to do in NY, in my opinion, when you’ve already done all the tourist stuff.

Interesting began the moment we got into our black car hired to take us to La Guardia Airport. Let me just say that even at 6 am and with no traffic, we shouldn’t have arrived there in under 20 minutes. I think the driver invented “e-ticket rides” and I no longer needed my caffeine energy drink by the time we got to our destination. I’m beginning to think NY taxi drivers are a special breed of maniac.

Of course, since we got there so early, and had already checked in online, all we had to do was drop off our bags and go through security. Which took all of 25 minutes. So while being afraid to miss our flight we left 2 ½ hours early, we ended up spending a little less than two hours at the airport just waiting to board. This is something we hate, seeing as we once got stuck at London’s Heathrow airport for 24 hours, which was miserable. And airports are the least comfortable place to have to wait. Well, I guess maybe jail would be worse. Then it was onto the next portion of mild torture: the flight.

Those of you who know us would probably describe us as, well, irritable, when it comes to noises. Planes are therefore our crucible. I never fly without earplugs because it is inevitable that at least one couple will not get the message that they are not alone and that their partner is not deaf. They think those around them are though, so they continue whatever unimportant, mundane conversation they started in the airport on the plane, sometimes for the entirety of the flight. The husband and I view this travel time differently, I guess, than most. We see it as a time to be considerate, quiet, and keep to ourselves, trying to move as little as possible (which for me is just asking for a nervous breakdown, but I manage to be an adult about it) so as not to disturb those around us. So, of course, we attract those aforementioned couples like magnets. This was no exception.

The two women were not loud, per se, but sitting right behind us, talking about literally nothing, just two hens clucking away because that is woman’s nature (sorry all you feminists, but its true) was just annoying enough to have us dreading the next 2 ½ hours. They obviously didn’t realize that the third person in their row, plus us and the third person in our row, were all trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, and they were becoming increasingly unpopular with those surrounding them. But people like them see only themselves, hear only themselves, care only for themselves. Gratefully, sometime after we actually fell asleep (which was surprising) I woke up to…silence. Amazing, wonderful silence. During our nap the stewardess (oh, excuse me, “flight attendant”) must’ve shown them that there were two seats free. I don’t know where they went, but it was far enough from us that I didn’t care. I wanted to kiss whoever fixed that.

Glad that I wouldn’t have to make a scene on an airplane and be escorted to federal prison for assaulting another passenger, we soon disembarked and soaked in the high seventies weather and strong sun of Miami. Which is where I will leave off for now.

Tune in next time, same blog time, same blog channel.

Ok that was so lame.

there's a downside to looking sane and non-violent

Ok, so I’ve been experiencing a rather annoying phenomenon since moving to New York. No, I’m not adopting an accent or developing a fan page for the Knicks, Yankees or Mets. This has to do with the many, many times I’ve been approached by complete strangers who either decide to unload their life-stories, opinions, advice, or pleas for assistance on me without any discernable reason.

The most recent incident occurred last night at CVS. I was excited to be shopping there because I secretly love drug stores for all the visual stimulation and the spectrum of eccentricities embodied by their patrons.  Plus I had at least ten things I had to get, like hair dye, mascara, eye shadow, moisturizer, and toilet paper (BTW, why does it seem like these expensive “necessities” always run out at the same time? I think they have meetings in the cabinet and discuss strategy). All fun stuff (well, not necessarily the toilet paper, unless you find that exciting), and I had a cornucopia of coupons I had slaved over collecting and matching to what I needed (I ended up saving about $15, so I treated myself to some self-tanning lotion for the cruise. Now I will only be Casper’s slightly darker cousin). 

Anyways, as I was considering the merits of odor-blocking white trash bags with drawstrings over heavy duty black garbage bags with flaps, I was approached by a woman who evidently didn’t speak English. At first all I sensed was a presence to my left, which within the narrow aisles of CVS is just a cue to move out of the person’s way, so i did so. Scooting up closer to the shelves, now face-to-face with the trash bags, I again began my decision making process, when the presence moved closer still, adding a “help me?” to the movement. I look over to the presence and see a woman in a head covering and dress looking at me with a cross between puppy dog eyes and wariness. I didn’t know what to say, so I raised my eyebrows and looked askance at her (FYI, that’s the universal non-verbal translation of “can I help you?”).

“You come with me?”

“Um…sure? Why?”

“I show you.”

“Um…ok….you know I don’t work here, right?”

Nods, gestures for me to follow her. Curiosity gets the better of my sense of self-preservation and hearing my mom say “Don’t accept candy from strangers.”

I follow her into the next aisle, pushing my little granny cart, and she stops and looks at an empty space in the shelves, surrounded by lots of baby diapers and wipes. She looks at me, looks at the empty space, looks back at me, then nods back to the empty space. At this point I’m wondering if I am on that “What would you do?” TV show where they see how people react to certain uncomfortable or controversial situations. Not that that was why I decided to help her, but still.

I try asking her what she needs, and all she does is point to this hook on the shelf that must’ve, at one point, held 99 cent CVS brand wipes, and says “Is gone?”

How do you answer that when it is very clear by the lack of anything hanging on the hook, that, Yes, they’re gone? How that absence didn’t translate, I don’t know.

So I ask her if she wants those wipes, she says yes. I go to the main area of wipes just down the aisle to see if there are any there, which of course there aren’t. Then I wonder if CVS gives rain checks. But how to communicate “rain check” to this woman?  So I somehow motion to her to stay in the aisle while I went to the front to ask. I found an employee on my way and asked him, and he seemed to understand the concept, but was unsure if it applied to all products. So I led him to the aisle where the woman still waited, looking abandoned because she didn’t seem to understand that I was coming back. Once I pointed out the products in question to the employee, I left him to it. And went back to comparing trash bags. Which I didn’t even get there because they didn’t carry Force-Flex.

Why did I find this whole exchange strange? Because this happens a great deal to me. At the gym, people always to want to chat me up (and usually it’s a geriatric who’s fooling himself into thinking doing some weight lifting is going to turn back the clock), despite my headphones and my ultra-determined to work up a sweat facial expressions (which, to be fair, may seem ultra-determined in my mind, but in reality may say “please, come talk to me, I have nothing better to do.”) Or at the Laundromat, the owner tells me about stores that have the best deals; or when I buy a billion Monster drinks from the market I get a questioning look from the clerk. “They’re for my husband. He’s really old and slow and needs all the help he can get.” Yes, I say that, because he’s not there to defend himself. That’s how I roll.

But seriously, what is this about? When I need help getting something from a high shelf, I look to the nearest person who seems tall enough to do the job and sic my puppy-dog eyes on them. Or I just jump up and down trying to reach for it until someone comes to my rescue. I don’t go seeking someone out from the next aisle. I don’t bother people at the gym unless I need help. I may smile and say good-morning if I make eye-contact with someone accidentally, but I try to keep to myself. What is it about me that makes people gravitate to me. I guess I should take it as a compliment that I don’t look insane or violent or mean or drugged out, and I do, and I’m not complaining per se, it’s just weird.

Any of you have this happening in your life?

P.S.
I added more photos to “camera happy.” All of them are already on my FB, so nothing new. This is just for my grandma. What-up grandma? That’s “Hi, Grandma” in our young persons vernacular. Love you!

thoughts for an insomiac

This is what I want to know:

At what point in my life will I stop comparing me to others I perceive as better, in some way, than myself? And I don’t mean that I am having an attack of low self-esteem; in fact, the older I get the less that seems to be a problem, which is great, and one of the reasons why you couldn’t pay me enough to go back to being a teenager, or even an early twenty something. I just mean that there always seems to be a level of something that I want to reach, but didn’t know I hadn’t or even wanted to.

For instance, when will I be as witty as the characters in the movies or books I read? Actually, I think it goes deeper than that. I think about the author of some of the stupid romance novels I can’t seem to kick the habit of, and I wonder, who does this? Who can sit and create not only a plot, and characters with their own personalities, but also their conversations, their idiosyncrasies, their thoughts? And we’re not talking Moby Dick here; we’re talking cheap, write five in a year, run-of-the-mill novels. The only time I can imagine conversations like that is when I am really mad and have time to think about what I would say, how I would say it; then usually I have to scrap my well-rehearsed diatribe because it would be less than profitable if I went with it.

I rarely have a quick retort or droll comeback. I feel as deep as…jeez, this is what I’m talking about. I actually Googled “as deep as” because I couldn’t think of an amusing simile, then I Googled the difference between metaphors, analogies, and similes, to make sure I had the right word. I can’t even come up with my own similes!?! Holy Moly.

(FYI, a simile is a type of metaphor, which is different from an analogy. In case you suddenly find yourself of Jeopardy or something.)

It doesn’t help that the only people who think I’m funny or witty are the females on my mom’s side, and maybe my uncle. Of course my mom thinks I’m hilarious, but then I am an only child and she’s easily amused (you know it’s true, mom). So while I could just take the ego boost and run with it, eventually I have to fess up to the fact that the audience is biased.

It also doesn’t help that I am married to a man who was first in line for Brains, Wit: Its Use and Effective Delivery, Logic, Self-control, and pretty much every other virtue they were handing out. I was probably distracted by something shiny and all I had time for was Tools of Procrastination, How to Work Less and Eat More, Napping, and Klutz: a Step by Step Guide to First Aid- You’re Gonna Need It. There’s not even a competition. Which makes me wonder why do I feel like there needs to be a competition? Can’t I just be happy I have such an amazing, if humbling, husband, and bask in the glow of his brilliance?

If, on the rare occasion, I actually say something that makes my husband laugh, he says “that’s going in your top ten.” But there is no top ten. If we actually wrote them down, you’d see a list with only two lines filled out, because if there are more we can’t remember them, so they must not have been that great to begin with, right?

It’s not just about being funny or witty. I have come to realize I have no sense of style. I will admit that it’s difficult when 99% of the clothes out there show way too much skin to be modest, or are just plain uncomfortable. But I’ve only got a few more years before I’m stuck with the mommy-jeans and shirts with perpetual spit up stains. I want Jennifer Anniston/that mom from “19 and counting,” but I will probably end up with woman who finds joy at the bottom of the Salvation Army bargain bin (FYI: I’m already finding joy at the bottom of the Salvation Army bargain bin). Sigh….

Even when I have an opportunity to be proud of something, it usually only works to make me feel worse that something so mediocre could make me feel accomplished. I replaced our bedroom door knob the other night. I went to Home Depot, picked it out (it was the most simple looking one), removed the old one and by comparing the old and new, installed the new one. And I only locked myself in once.

Why should this cause me to surge with pride? Why should I beam when a new recipe I try comes out OK? Or want to jump for joy when I finally figured out how to come up from the subway station and not be totally disoriented? Or when I take and edit a photo that has probably been done a thousand times over by someone who actually knows what they’re doing?

I don’t know where I am going with all of this. I am not discontent, not unhappy.

I don’t have a witty ending for this one. Just going to send this out into the void and ponder.

Have a good night.

the Sandman must be on sick-leave, cause he sure isn't here...

Ok, so, insomnia attack. The Queen of Naps and Lover of Sleep has counted 347 thousand cotton-clad ruminant quadrupeds (that’s Wikipedia talk for sheep…well the ruminant part; the cotton clad part isn’t very accurate or scientific) and is more awake than when she started. Even the husband had a hard time with the Sandman, and he’s got an early start and a 15 hour day tomorrow.

So I decided to share with you all the things that keep running through my head in among the herd of Ovis aries (sheep again…I love Wikipedia) in hopes that a good mental purging will clear the air and let me get to sleep.

I’ve been reading this series of books about these impossibly creative women, a pastry chef, a photographer, a florist and an organizer who own their own wedding business. And of course I love all those things (well maybe not the baking, but I am growing fond of cooking, am even finding myself drawn to kitchen utensils and cookery like I am to craft supplies) and of course they’re all gorgeous and fit and incredibly successful in everything they do. Why do I read these things? They just set up an incredibly false image of something only .000011% of what real women, and even men, achieve. And gets me wondering why I’m not so witty or motivated or productive. But more on that (possibly) another time…if I’m feeling witty and productive enough.

Anyways, I was brain-wandering about how I want to be the Queen Hostess, the one who has amazing dinner parties with creative cocktails and superb appetizers and delicate magazine-cover-worthy desserts and knock-you-in-the-jaw awesome entrées. Who takes amazing candids of her guests and they all rave about it and can’t wait for another one. I was drooling at the thought of Thanksgiving at our place, and then I was thinking about what kind of buffet (the furniture kind) would look good in the space (then tried really hard not to think of the space since I can’t have the space again for another year and 4 months) and then I was thinking how I want to get a job so I can save up to get a cool buffet and then about how I don’t really want a job because I like not having any responsibility before we start “trying” and then I have a whole lot more responsibility than I ever could handle.

And that’s why I’m not asleep.

Here’s some other images floating around my head like the ones flying around a cartoon character’s head after he gets hit with a frying pan:

This is the most amazing apron ever! Heavenlyhostess.com sure knows how to make me drool. How awesome would this be as my Queen Hostess apron? With a cute cocktail dress? And maybe a beehive hair do? And some gaudy dangly earrings? Ok no beehive, but do you see how my mind is going light speed?

Since we're treating ourselves to a short cruise in the Bahamas, I envision myself shopping on the islands or taking photos looking like this:

but I will settle for something like this:

I need to get a new bathing suit. This is what I imagine myself looking like after 6 weeks 

of cardio and weight training: 

or maybe even 

except, you know, not as bony.

But this is probably what I will end up looking like:

but this is the one I want right now, from Target, if they have it in stock:

oh, and I'll take the tan, too, please.

Ok, I think I am sufficiently tired enough to go to sleep. Thanks for "listening." Oh, and if you want to contribute to making my visions into reality, contact me and I tell you where you can make a donation. No seriously.

.Have a good night, mi amigos.