Horea regales us with the similarities between our nation's current politics and his native Communist country. Snooze.
As we draw nearer the address Joy and I have given to him, he mentions that we are not far, but that address has quite a few establishments right there. He asks specifically where we are going.
In unison, Joy and I sing "The Bad Dog!" and think it is hysterical.
Horea stops at the light and turns completely around in the seat to look at us directly.
"Girls?" he asks, with an air of protective are-you-sure-you-know-what-you-are-getting-your-beer-soaked-selves-into-ness. And then he looks a little closer to make sure he has not mistakenly picked up some hookers. The establishment has a bit of a rep. He'd clearly assumed we would not be caught dead there.
"Oh no" Joy assures him. "We are meeting friends there!"
"What kinds of friends are these?" he asks, his ability to control his Croatian accent and his perspiration waning. He must have sisters. Gullible sisters.
"We've been there before," Joy continues, "And these friends are men AND women we've known for a long time."
Horea lowers his neurosis enough to capably step on the gas and get us to the church on time. The outside of the bar is crowded with parked motorcycles and leather-clad smokers enjoying a few butts. We pay Horea and as the sea of smokers parts to allow us to pass, we notice he is waiting to see that we make it safely across the threshold. We wave to him and blow him a thankful kiss. Poor guy probably said novenas all through his shift.
Joy and I walk through the long hallway to where the action is and are spotted by our merry band of traveling friends, who sing songs with our names in them in booming voices as we approach. A welcome like this is hard not to appreciate.
Rounds are ordered and doubled and Joy and I take our places in our familiar crowd for the games to truly begin.
The Bad Dog is ONE OF THOSE BARS. Not a strip club, but clearly flirting with that definition.
There is a pretty even mix of male and female patrons, couples, old and young folks. And for that reason, it is indistinct from any other bar. What sets it apart is that the cocktail waitresses and bar tenders are all clothed in nothing more than black push up bras and skimpy black boyshort panties that read "Doggie Style" across the behind. And for a big enough tip, one will climb up on the bar and perform a trapeze act swinging from the rafters. And speaking of rafters, the rafters of the seating area are decorated with cast off, flung and left there brassieres of lady patrons who have been inspired by the atmosphere to let their own girls fly free.
What never ceases to amaze me about this place, is that it is not even the slightest bit uncomfortable to be there. In fact, it is in my top 3 favorite places in this town, the other two having already been visited this night.
Joy seems to have paid close enough attention to figure out why the atmosphere does not give anyone the willies. The cocktail waitress, clearly being ogled by the men, are extremely attentive and gracious to the women, who might otherwise feel ignored. It is like being waited on my your kid sister's best girlfriend who wants to take care of you because she can.
We are there for last call, pile into cars and head to our friends' house - they will return the favor and host the after party. And after party that may or may not include shots, beers, Jiffy Pop, a heated pool, line dancing or dancing up on counter tops, but will definitely include all of us singing at the top of our lungs at one point or another.
Another fine night to rehash over breakfast the next day.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
We Are Not In Kansas Anymore
The Bull Riding event (Contest? Competition? Suicide Pact?) resumes and the crowd moves in to fill the stands surrounding the makeshift ring that doesn't look like it could contain a toddler let alone a raging bull. I stay on my feet next to Joy. Ready to make a break for it to avoid an inadvertent goring.
The crowd is really into it...the mood probably aided by inspiring music. Eye of the Tiger, for instance. The clowns are clearly half-wits. Taunting bulls that seemed to already be calm and wandering aimlessly. I hope they are paid well. The bulls are ridden. A very proud man in chaps is given a blingy belt to call his own. The crowd is pleased and orders rounds of shots in every direction.
The gals and I wander in to see the band. Tonight it is not a group of older men in cowboy gear playing melodramatic sappy cowboy songs. It is a younger band playing songs you might have actually heard had you dwelled for a song or two on the Country Cousin station. We are people watching and having a ball.
There is a middle aged Mom who barrels into the bar in what appears to be an outfit pulled from the laundry basket solely for the purpose of bombing over the desert to retrieve her underage daughter. Curlers bobbing in her Toni home permed hair, she is reading the kid the riot act. The kid is stammering some excuse about just wandering in through the bar on the way to her car following the bull riding competition finale (which apparently might have been an adequate story under other circumstances...go figure) But there is a telltale collection of beers on the table and a bejeweled and bedazzled tank top in full view now that the kid's denim jacket has been draped over the chair by the beers. She had clearly intended to stay. Totally busted. The mother is spitting mad. Hilarious.
We follow the the thrashing as it moves out the door and notice a couple of heavyweights looking miserable on a date. They give the appearance of being married and indifferent. They are in matchy matchy blingy belt buckles - every inch of the fabric of his jeans busting with the lard packed in them, and her belt buckle, thread on a tool worked belt through the loops of her high-waisted acid washed jeans, is barely visible having been jammed at a breath-halting position amid the tremendous rolls of fat. Both sporting spiffy cowboy hats. He has a goatee. A stunning pair for sure.
I get a text from Alejandro. He wants to know what we are doing. I tell him we are listening to great music with great crowd. He wants to know where. I tell him.
Could he be joining us?
I hear nothing.
The band plays a great Joe Cocker song. I text Alejandro that they are playing the song that I would make a fortune with if I were forced to go to work as a stripper some day.
He is either indifferent (what?) or has fainted at the notion. I hear nothing. Smooth move on my part.
Priscilla texts us that they are going to another location.
Alejandro texts that they are headed to another place altogether.
I ask for some direction...Kate and Jackie are fading at the bottom of the Viking beers. Joy and I need to know where we are going next.
I head to the ladies room and google cab companies in the area. I am surprised to find a weird girl we'd met on a prior trip who'd felt compelled to share her life philosophies with me in a ladies room. She is reading aloud to some other bathroom patron over the door of the stall. There is apparently plentiful graffiti about her on the walls. She seems flattered. Almost proud. I wash and rinse and dry on my jacket as I flee the scene before being recognized.
I get a text from Alejandro. They are headed to the Bad Dog.
I confirm with Priscilla who will be where. Satisfied that Joy and I will not be walking into a bar with a tenuous reputation all alone, I text Alejandro that we will join them but need an address for the cab driver.
I get an immediate reply with an address.
Then another. "Be careful. See you soon."
And Joy and I are on our way, with a Croation immigrant cabbie named Horea who has some pretty strong buzz-killing opinions about American politics that he seems driven to share on the way. I may as well be sharing a cab with my mother.
Between the appeal of the bar and the patrons we know are waiting there, and the aggravating cab driver, the cab ride is endless.
The crowd is really into it...the mood probably aided by inspiring music. Eye of the Tiger, for instance. The clowns are clearly half-wits. Taunting bulls that seemed to already be calm and wandering aimlessly. I hope they are paid well. The bulls are ridden. A very proud man in chaps is given a blingy belt to call his own. The crowd is pleased and orders rounds of shots in every direction.
The gals and I wander in to see the band. Tonight it is not a group of older men in cowboy gear playing melodramatic sappy cowboy songs. It is a younger band playing songs you might have actually heard had you dwelled for a song or two on the Country Cousin station. We are people watching and having a ball.
There is a middle aged Mom who barrels into the bar in what appears to be an outfit pulled from the laundry basket solely for the purpose of bombing over the desert to retrieve her underage daughter. Curlers bobbing in her Toni home permed hair, she is reading the kid the riot act. The kid is stammering some excuse about just wandering in through the bar on the way to her car following the bull riding competition finale (which apparently might have been an adequate story under other circumstances...go figure) But there is a telltale collection of beers on the table and a bejeweled and bedazzled tank top in full view now that the kid's denim jacket has been draped over the chair by the beers. She had clearly intended to stay. Totally busted. The mother is spitting mad. Hilarious.
We follow the the thrashing as it moves out the door and notice a couple of heavyweights looking miserable on a date. They give the appearance of being married and indifferent. They are in matchy matchy blingy belt buckles - every inch of the fabric of his jeans busting with the lard packed in them, and her belt buckle, thread on a tool worked belt through the loops of her high-waisted acid washed jeans, is barely visible having been jammed at a breath-halting position amid the tremendous rolls of fat. Both sporting spiffy cowboy hats. He has a goatee. A stunning pair for sure.
I get a text from Alejandro. He wants to know what we are doing. I tell him we are listening to great music with great crowd. He wants to know where. I tell him.
Could he be joining us?
I hear nothing.
The band plays a great Joe Cocker song. I text Alejandro that they are playing the song that I would make a fortune with if I were forced to go to work as a stripper some day.
He is either indifferent (what?) or has fainted at the notion. I hear nothing. Smooth move on my part.
Priscilla texts us that they are going to another location.
Alejandro texts that they are headed to another place altogether.
I ask for some direction...Kate and Jackie are fading at the bottom of the Viking beers. Joy and I need to know where we are going next.
I head to the ladies room and google cab companies in the area. I am surprised to find a weird girl we'd met on a prior trip who'd felt compelled to share her life philosophies with me in a ladies room. She is reading aloud to some other bathroom patron over the door of the stall. There is apparently plentiful graffiti about her on the walls. She seems flattered. Almost proud. I wash and rinse and dry on my jacket as I flee the scene before being recognized.
I get a text from Alejandro. They are headed to the Bad Dog.
I confirm with Priscilla who will be where. Satisfied that Joy and I will not be walking into a bar with a tenuous reputation all alone, I text Alejandro that we will join them but need an address for the cab driver.
I get an immediate reply with an address.
Then another. "Be careful. See you soon."
And Joy and I are on our way, with a Croation immigrant cabbie named Horea who has some pretty strong buzz-killing opinions about American politics that he seems driven to share on the way. I may as well be sharing a cab with my mother.
Between the appeal of the bar and the patrons we know are waiting there, and the aggravating cab driver, the cab ride is endless.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Bars, Beers and Bullriding
Once back inside, we are seated at a table in the eclectic little dining room that is inviting and interesting and beautiful beyond description. The lighting is glowing and the colors are warm and muted, and the crowd is enthralled by a very talented singer/songwriter with enormous guitar-playing talent and a very engaging stage personality. We order a feast.
The crowd is as eclectic as the decor, saving a table full of women, obviously out celebrating a birthday, each of which has attempted, some more admirably than others, to model her appearance after a Kardashian or Taylor Swift. It is hilarious.
I stick to my one glass pact while there are a few more rounds ordered and enjoyed. Kate is feeling warm. Maybe too warm. She is threatening to remove her shirt. And here I was worrying about the can-can.
We are serenaded for Kate's belated birthday, treated to fondue (or as Jackie put it "Fon-f-ing-due!") and laugh our heads off planning to open a similar establishment at home. We even have a name for the place that is a perfect smart-assed peice of marketing genius. Details TBA.
And then, as tradition dictates, we are off to the cowboy bar we also frequent. A bar where some of the gals have gotten their jeans branded by a cowboy named Griz, where the bar owner adores us and gives us our drinks for a dollar, and where the entire outdoor area is lit and warmed by pit fires to warm the hands and other extremities of those there to watch the Bull Riding competition.
No. No typo. I meant to write "Bull Riding competition." Clowns and all. Winner gets a dinner plate sized belt buckle for his efforts. (I would want a whole lot more than that for being flung for 8 seconds by an epileptic 4 ton beast with a bad attitude and a killer instinct, thank you.) The crowd is almost as interesting as the competition. Women and men all tattooed and dressed in what can only be described as costumes. Clothes that say "I came for the bull riding event." Western shirts, and colorful boots and blingy jeans and bejeweled belts and bedazzled cowboy hats. Women with hair that has been blown out and back-combed and teased and whipped into peroxide perfection (only to be jammed under a cowboy hat at a specifically dictated angle chosen for the most flattering cow gal effect.)
Meanwhile, Jackie is teetering around the loose dirt in her leopard kitten heels and Joy is hoping her hairspray does not get ignited by flying ash from the pit fires. We are ooing and ahhing over babies brought to the event by their misguided bull-riding fan parents. We are eavesdropping on innane conversation. We are marveling at the assortment of spectators. It is a scream.
We order beers. They are 24 ounces and in enormous glass mugs. I describe them as Viking beers. Jackie can barley lift hers. She says she needs a sherpa.
I take the opportunity to drop Alejandro a line. "Jackie needs a sherpa to hold her Viking beer."
He texts back immediately that Bonzo is game.
Let the remote flirting begin.
The crowd is as eclectic as the decor, saving a table full of women, obviously out celebrating a birthday, each of which has attempted, some more admirably than others, to model her appearance after a Kardashian or Taylor Swift. It is hilarious.
I stick to my one glass pact while there are a few more rounds ordered and enjoyed. Kate is feeling warm. Maybe too warm. She is threatening to remove her shirt. And here I was worrying about the can-can.
We are serenaded for Kate's belated birthday, treated to fondue (or as Jackie put it "Fon-f-ing-due!") and laugh our heads off planning to open a similar establishment at home. We even have a name for the place that is a perfect smart-assed peice of marketing genius. Details TBA.
And then, as tradition dictates, we are off to the cowboy bar we also frequent. A bar where some of the gals have gotten their jeans branded by a cowboy named Griz, where the bar owner adores us and gives us our drinks for a dollar, and where the entire outdoor area is lit and warmed by pit fires to warm the hands and other extremities of those there to watch the Bull Riding competition.
No. No typo. I meant to write "Bull Riding competition." Clowns and all. Winner gets a dinner plate sized belt buckle for his efforts. (I would want a whole lot more than that for being flung for 8 seconds by an epileptic 4 ton beast with a bad attitude and a killer instinct, thank you.) The crowd is almost as interesting as the competition. Women and men all tattooed and dressed in what can only be described as costumes. Clothes that say "I came for the bull riding event." Western shirts, and colorful boots and blingy jeans and bejeweled belts and bedazzled cowboy hats. Women with hair that has been blown out and back-combed and teased and whipped into peroxide perfection (only to be jammed under a cowboy hat at a specifically dictated angle chosen for the most flattering cow gal effect.)
Meanwhile, Jackie is teetering around the loose dirt in her leopard kitten heels and Joy is hoping her hairspray does not get ignited by flying ash from the pit fires. We are ooing and ahhing over babies brought to the event by their misguided bull-riding fan parents. We are eavesdropping on innane conversation. We are marveling at the assortment of spectators. It is a scream.
We order beers. They are 24 ounces and in enormous glass mugs. I describe them as Viking beers. Jackie can barley lift hers. She says she needs a sherpa.
I take the opportunity to drop Alejandro a line. "Jackie needs a sherpa to hold her Viking beer."
He texts back immediately that Bonzo is game.
Let the remote flirting begin.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Do Not Adjust Your Television.This is Just a Test
The evening is the sorority slumber party it usually resembles at this hour.
Clothes, jewelry, makeup, hair products and other notions are all being offered or asked for from room to room. Clothes irons, flat irons, and curling irons all cooking. The bar bears all the hallmarks of a party well underway: glasses, limes, chips, salsa, opened bottles, half-filled glasses, corks lying still on screws, margarita foam pooled in bottoms of glasses.
We are a somewhat divided camp tonight. The Krotchfelts are here to party and have taken a new found albeit delayed shine to our friends from prior years. Our friends are going out in downtown and a contingency of our group, led by the K sisters is going to join them.
Since Jackie will only be with us this one last night and has expressed an interest in dining in a restaurant we have all come to know and love that is nearby, she and Joy and Kate have decided to go there. I am the vote that decides the majority, which for some reason seems to matter when it shouldn't.
I am planning to join Kate, Joy and Jackie.
I've heard from Alejandro a few times that day. It is apparent that he'd like to see me, which is nice to know but puts me in somewhat of a quandary. I'd like to see him for sure, but this trip is about THE GIRLS. Or is supposed to be. Last year, J. was a huge distraction and I felt guilty about not being present. And then about being a disturbance. I need to be present. I am here for the right reasons and nothing will distract me.
So Alejandro is a secondary concern tonight. A priority but not the top banana. And for genuine and meaningful reasons. But that is a pretty weighty topic that will require a very verbose and sincere explanation to be understood by Alejandro, which I am pretty sure is unnecessary given the fleeting and frivolous nature of this little romance. I am sure I do not want to seem like the psycho from the Wedding Crashers planning a wedding and 2.3 children after the first kiss. So instead, I am dodging. I'd like to say I am an artful dodger, but we are texting for chrissake, and it is an imperfect media. I am not doing the dance very gracefully. Aloof but not unavailable is the position I want to take but aloof comes across as bitchy in texts. Available comes across as desperate. I am doomed.
I would like to see him. Their plans sound like fun. (Hello, full contact karaoke participation!) But I am compelled by my friendship with the girls to give them the priority they deserve. This is a girls trip. Anything else is a bonus. This really can not and should not be adequately explained. It is just who we are to eachother.
As we approach the wine bar/coffee house/foodie heaven we have grown to adore, I get a text from Alejandro.
"If we are welcome, we'd like to see you girls tonight."
Great. My dodging and the imperfect media that is texting have managed to make him feel like a pest. Like I'm not interested. Too aloof. Blowing him/them off. So convincingly so that he will not even say he'd like to see me. Has to make it a group thing. They'd like to see us.
We sit at the bar, order wine, and wait for a table. I make a pact with the girls that I order something other than wine after the first drink. I love wine but have no idea how to avoid getting completely plastered when I drink it. So overindulging in public has to be avoided at all costs. One glass I am a happy, story telling companion. Two or three and I am likely to be found up on the table top dancing the can-can in my panties and no one would be capable of convincing me that it is not a splendid idea. So once I have placed my order for the first and last glass of the night, I excuse myself to right things with Alejandro and the boys.
I am relieved that he answers. I am better in conversation than anything else.
I let him know where we are and who I am with - and let him know that there are a few folks headed in their direction. I tell him directly that of course they are welcome. We love their company, and implore him not to worry about that.
He audibly exhales in relief.
I continue that Jackie is with us for one last evening and that 4 of us are spending the early evening together. Kate and Jackie intend to turn in earlier than the rest of us. Joy and I will likely catch up with them later. We can keep in touch by text.
Dangling little tidbits of information for the next few hours will right the ship. Vaguely suggestive little snipets that have him wondering why he's not in a cab on his way to see me.
This is where my degree in English and my love of just the right word give me the edge no matter what the media. My element. My game.
Game on.
Clothes, jewelry, makeup, hair products and other notions are all being offered or asked for from room to room. Clothes irons, flat irons, and curling irons all cooking. The bar bears all the hallmarks of a party well underway: glasses, limes, chips, salsa, opened bottles, half-filled glasses, corks lying still on screws, margarita foam pooled in bottoms of glasses.
We are a somewhat divided camp tonight. The Krotchfelts are here to party and have taken a new found albeit delayed shine to our friends from prior years. Our friends are going out in downtown and a contingency of our group, led by the K sisters is going to join them.
Since Jackie will only be with us this one last night and has expressed an interest in dining in a restaurant we have all come to know and love that is nearby, she and Joy and Kate have decided to go there. I am the vote that decides the majority, which for some reason seems to matter when it shouldn't.
I am planning to join Kate, Joy and Jackie.
I've heard from Alejandro a few times that day. It is apparent that he'd like to see me, which is nice to know but puts me in somewhat of a quandary. I'd like to see him for sure, but this trip is about THE GIRLS. Or is supposed to be. Last year, J. was a huge distraction and I felt guilty about not being present. And then about being a disturbance. I need to be present. I am here for the right reasons and nothing will distract me.
So Alejandro is a secondary concern tonight. A priority but not the top banana. And for genuine and meaningful reasons. But that is a pretty weighty topic that will require a very verbose and sincere explanation to be understood by Alejandro, which I am pretty sure is unnecessary given the fleeting and frivolous nature of this little romance. I am sure I do not want to seem like the psycho from the Wedding Crashers planning a wedding and 2.3 children after the first kiss. So instead, I am dodging. I'd like to say I am an artful dodger, but we are texting for chrissake, and it is an imperfect media. I am not doing the dance very gracefully. Aloof but not unavailable is the position I want to take but aloof comes across as bitchy in texts. Available comes across as desperate. I am doomed.
I would like to see him. Their plans sound like fun. (Hello, full contact karaoke participation!) But I am compelled by my friendship with the girls to give them the priority they deserve. This is a girls trip. Anything else is a bonus. This really can not and should not be adequately explained. It is just who we are to eachother.
As we approach the wine bar/coffee house/foodie heaven we have grown to adore, I get a text from Alejandro.
"If we are welcome, we'd like to see you girls tonight."
Great. My dodging and the imperfect media that is texting have managed to make him feel like a pest. Like I'm not interested. Too aloof. Blowing him/them off. So convincingly so that he will not even say he'd like to see me. Has to make it a group thing. They'd like to see us.
We sit at the bar, order wine, and wait for a table. I make a pact with the girls that I order something other than wine after the first drink. I love wine but have no idea how to avoid getting completely plastered when I drink it. So overindulging in public has to be avoided at all costs. One glass I am a happy, story telling companion. Two or three and I am likely to be found up on the table top dancing the can-can in my panties and no one would be capable of convincing me that it is not a splendid idea. So once I have placed my order for the first and last glass of the night, I excuse myself to right things with Alejandro and the boys.
I am relieved that he answers. I am better in conversation than anything else.
I let him know where we are and who I am with - and let him know that there are a few folks headed in their direction. I tell him directly that of course they are welcome. We love their company, and implore him not to worry about that.
He audibly exhales in relief.
I continue that Jackie is with us for one last evening and that 4 of us are spending the early evening together. Kate and Jackie intend to turn in earlier than the rest of us. Joy and I will likely catch up with them later. We can keep in touch by text.
Dangling little tidbits of information for the next few hours will right the ship. Vaguely suggestive little snipets that have him wondering why he's not in a cab on his way to see me.
This is where my degree in English and my love of just the right word give me the edge no matter what the media. My element. My game.
Game on.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Twistin' by the Pool
The afternoon turns into one of those dreamy, lazy, nothing-to-do-but-hang-may-as-well-have-a-drink kind of afternoons. Except for Jackie. She was out for a long run.
What?
The rest of us retired to the pool. The gated one with the hot tub. We have magazines and books and snacks and lots to dish about. Again, one of my favorite features of this kind of trip.
Candy is doing research on pop culture and needs to dig in to a book which asks women to determine whether they are a Marilyn (as in Monroe) or a Jackie (as in Kennedy Onassis). Both seem pretty tragic. I would venture to guess I am more Jamie Lee Curtis than either one of these two. No costumes. No flagrant misbehaving. No famous trademark. No flamboyant family. No outrageous backstory. (OK that weird androgyny urban legend thing notwithstanding.) But any day of the week that beats being Amy Winehouse, Anna Nicole Smith, Hilary Clinton, Camilla Parker Bowles, Eva Longoria Parker, or Madonna. Or anyone in Mel Gibson’s life.
But evidently I am reading too deeply into this vacuous little book. It is more about looks and approach than attitude and soul. So the question really is “Are you a hot mess or a style icon?” After responding to a few not-so-probing questions, we decide that none of us are decidedly either and turn our attention to the Cosmopolitan Magazine offering to enlighten us about men’s “hot spots” or more plainly, parts of their bodies that men universally enjoy having touched and why.
Don’t we all know why? And doesn’t it suffice to say that almost any touching at all is pretty much appreciated, even if only just a potential gateway drug to the Big Show?
But we read on anyway. And this is where you really begin to know who your girlfriends are. Because there as you are all sitting nearly nude in a hot tub or beach chairs with no other distractions and nowhere to hide, is when all the deepest, most tightly held, most private secrets, questions, insecurities and ideas all come out to play.
Whose quiet demeanor belies an adventurous little firecracker with an extraordinary repertoire?
Who is willing but a little anxious to try what, because they aren’t quite sure of the physics involved.
What does he think when you do X, Y or Z? Has anyone asked him?
Whose husband/partner keeps making a special request and promises jewelry in return for a particular thing that one friend is not entirely game to attempt, and another friend may have had the same reservation about but has gotten over it.
Descriptions of a failed mission that needs to be attempted again and how to capitalize on the do-over.
Things we’ve learned through years of laughable trial and error. And sometimes injury.
What thing got what surprising reaction and might be worth the other gals giving a whirl when they get home from the trip.
Who has become a little insecure about what act/body part/bodily function/feature of middle age and needs a little reassurance from someone who will never mislead her and will give her only honesty, no matter what.
Hints from Heloise type advice on what to do when things are out of sync and need to get back in alignment in a hurry.
In short, stuff your mother never told you, but your girlfriends always will.
What?
The rest of us retired to the pool. The gated one with the hot tub. We have magazines and books and snacks and lots to dish about. Again, one of my favorite features of this kind of trip.
Candy is doing research on pop culture and needs to dig in to a book which asks women to determine whether they are a Marilyn (as in Monroe) or a Jackie (as in Kennedy Onassis). Both seem pretty tragic. I would venture to guess I am more Jamie Lee Curtis than either one of these two. No costumes. No flagrant misbehaving. No famous trademark. No flamboyant family. No outrageous backstory. (OK that weird androgyny urban legend thing notwithstanding.) But any day of the week that beats being Amy Winehouse, Anna Nicole Smith, Hilary Clinton, Camilla Parker Bowles, Eva Longoria Parker, or Madonna. Or anyone in Mel Gibson’s life.
But evidently I am reading too deeply into this vacuous little book. It is more about looks and approach than attitude and soul. So the question really is “Are you a hot mess or a style icon?” After responding to a few not-so-probing questions, we decide that none of us are decidedly either and turn our attention to the Cosmopolitan Magazine offering to enlighten us about men’s “hot spots” or more plainly, parts of their bodies that men universally enjoy having touched and why.
Don’t we all know why? And doesn’t it suffice to say that almost any touching at all is pretty much appreciated, even if only just a potential gateway drug to the Big Show?
But we read on anyway. And this is where you really begin to know who your girlfriends are. Because there as you are all sitting nearly nude in a hot tub or beach chairs with no other distractions and nowhere to hide, is when all the deepest, most tightly held, most private secrets, questions, insecurities and ideas all come out to play.
Whose quiet demeanor belies an adventurous little firecracker with an extraordinary repertoire?
Who is willing but a little anxious to try what, because they aren’t quite sure of the physics involved.
What does he think when you do X, Y or Z? Has anyone asked him?
Whose husband/partner keeps making a special request and promises jewelry in return for a particular thing that one friend is not entirely game to attempt, and another friend may have had the same reservation about but has gotten over it.
Descriptions of a failed mission that needs to be attempted again and how to capitalize on the do-over.
Things we’ve learned through years of laughable trial and error. And sometimes injury.
What thing got what surprising reaction and might be worth the other gals giving a whirl when they get home from the trip.
Who has become a little insecure about what act/body part/bodily function/feature of middle age and needs a little reassurance from someone who will never mislead her and will give her only honesty, no matter what.
Hints from Heloise type advice on what to do when things are out of sync and need to get back in alignment in a hurry.
In short, stuff your mother never told you, but your girlfriends always will.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Baby Got Back
The walk was as enlightening as it was refreshing. We all learned a little more about each other. The desert will do that to you.
We decide to delay going to the pool in favor of lunch at one of the places that has become a fan favorite since our first having visited. The veterans are jonesing for a few house favorites and the newbies are anxious to see what we are so excited about.
We are a little dusty and a little more weathered than we'd like, but nothing a little lipstick can't fix. We are getting presentable when Candy presents a challenge to her sister.
"Dare me to walk in like this?"
I turn to find that Candy has jammed the both legs of her shorts up into her bikini line in the front, turning it, well, into a bikini.
But that is only half the story. She turns to reveal that the backs of the legs of her shorts have been similarly jammed up between her butt cheeks, which were completely exposed. Again.
With her full pouty Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick and jewelry, this is a sight to behold. She intends to walk right into the restaurant, and ask with the utmost seriousness, for a table for 7. I imagine her being told, however tentatively, "Follow me, " and letting us all file in behind the hostess while she quite literally brings up the rear, and has a dining room full of restaurant patrons reaching into their breast pockets for glycerin pills.
As funny as this is, I am starving. I suggest she reconsider since we do actually want to eat at this restaurant and not be forcibly removed from it. But this really is too funny not to do.
In the end, no pun intended, she unwads the front of the shorts from her crotch, and then jams only one leg of the back of the shorts into her butt crack so it really does look like an accident. And it will create all manner of Candid Camera moments as we walk through the pavilion, asking unsuspecting and nearly speechless passersby for recommendations for where to go later that night.
And so, we are seated by a humorless waitress who rebuffs our attempts to be her favorite, albeit most demanding, table. (She must not have realized that we are big tippers.) And at some point between the nachos and the salads, and in among the stories and the razzing, the texts began arriving from our friends, rehashing episodes from the night before according to their unique perspective, and of course, enticing us to come out and play again.
And this, friends, is probably my second favorite part of the trip.
We decide to delay going to the pool in favor of lunch at one of the places that has become a fan favorite since our first having visited. The veterans are jonesing for a few house favorites and the newbies are anxious to see what we are so excited about.
We are a little dusty and a little more weathered than we'd like, but nothing a little lipstick can't fix. We are getting presentable when Candy presents a challenge to her sister.
"Dare me to walk in like this?"
I turn to find that Candy has jammed the both legs of her shorts up into her bikini line in the front, turning it, well, into a bikini.
But that is only half the story. She turns to reveal that the backs of the legs of her shorts have been similarly jammed up between her butt cheeks, which were completely exposed. Again.
With her full pouty Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick and jewelry, this is a sight to behold. She intends to walk right into the restaurant, and ask with the utmost seriousness, for a table for 7. I imagine her being told, however tentatively, "Follow me, " and letting us all file in behind the hostess while she quite literally brings up the rear, and has a dining room full of restaurant patrons reaching into their breast pockets for glycerin pills.
As funny as this is, I am starving. I suggest she reconsider since we do actually want to eat at this restaurant and not be forcibly removed from it. But this really is too funny not to do.
In the end, no pun intended, she unwads the front of the shorts from her crotch, and then jams only one leg of the back of the shorts into her butt crack so it really does look like an accident. And it will create all manner of Candid Camera moments as we walk through the pavilion, asking unsuspecting and nearly speechless passersby for recommendations for where to go later that night.
And so, we are seated by a humorless waitress who rebuffs our attempts to be her favorite, albeit most demanding, table. (She must not have realized that we are big tippers.) And at some point between the nachos and the salads, and in among the stories and the razzing, the texts began arriving from our friends, rehashing episodes from the night before according to their unique perspective, and of course, enticing us to come out and play again.
And this, friends, is probably my second favorite part of the trip.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Moon Over My Hammy
We pull into the parking spaces at the foot of the mountain and prepare to hike. Phones, bottled water, sunscreen, sun glasses. We are ready. Candy turns to begin to hike up the hill…and in doing so, shouts over her shoulder, “Don’t be jealous that I have a great ass!”
I turn to respond only to see that Candy has mooned us again. This time she is showing off the tan lines from her recent spray on tan, and to emphasize the point, has begun to walk proudly away from us all, the waistband of her running shorts pulled down to expose both butt cheeks in their entirety. I am doubled over.
She stops to explain.
“My mother and I are mooners,” she says. Just as anyone else would say that they along with their mother, might be Republicans, or vegetarians, or Yankees fans. She goes on to say that what she means by that is that a good mooning is simply a way to make a point. Some people flip you the bird. Some people tell you to drop dead. Some people moon you. She further illustrates by telling me a story about having walked into her mother’s home recently to find her talking to her sister, who lives in another state, on Skype. And shortly having walked in, Candy observed her mother mooning the sister, again, all by the magic that is Skype. Taffy confirms the story. Mooning is a family affair.
I am about to say that I don’t know of anyone who moons anyone – and suddenly to my delight recall that my Dad did a little mooning in his day. He did a thing he and his buddies called a Pressed Ham. Their car (jammed with people like our car, no doubt) would pull up along side another car full of people, and someone would press their bare ass against that window glass. Voila! Pressed Ham.
Why this makes me giggle I am not sure. But suddenly mooning seems as normal as shaking hands. Only more fun.
I turn to respond only to see that Candy has mooned us again. This time she is showing off the tan lines from her recent spray on tan, and to emphasize the point, has begun to walk proudly away from us all, the waistband of her running shorts pulled down to expose both butt cheeks in their entirety. I am doubled over.
She stops to explain.
“My mother and I are mooners,” she says. Just as anyone else would say that they along with their mother, might be Republicans, or vegetarians, or Yankees fans. She goes on to say that what she means by that is that a good mooning is simply a way to make a point. Some people flip you the bird. Some people tell you to drop dead. Some people moon you. She further illustrates by telling me a story about having walked into her mother’s home recently to find her talking to her sister, who lives in another state, on Skype. And shortly having walked in, Candy observed her mother mooning the sister, again, all by the magic that is Skype. Taffy confirms the story. Mooning is a family affair.
I am about to say that I don’t know of anyone who moons anyone – and suddenly to my delight recall that my Dad did a little mooning in his day. He did a thing he and his buddies called a Pressed Ham. Their car (jammed with people like our car, no doubt) would pull up along side another car full of people, and someone would press their bare ass against that window glass. Voila! Pressed Ham.
Why this makes me giggle I am not sure. But suddenly mooning seems as normal as shaking hands. Only more fun.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
All About Steve
As is our tradition, once we have all laughed until we cried, were awake and hydrated and fed, and had sufficiently rehashed all the stories we'd gone out and come home with the night before, we head to the hills.
Quite literally.
There is a mountainous desert park nearby that offers beautiful panoramic views, gorgeous natural terrain and a great opportunity for a workout as part of the deal. We pile into a car and head in that direction.
We get to the booth where we'll retrieve our trail map and pay to enter the park. We stop and greet the volunteer in the booth. She is a spunky retiree who moments earlier had been chatting with a handsome man who was now standing in the shade of the booth, out of the sweltering sun, and talking on his cell phone.
Candy rolls down the window and greets both the volunteer and the hottie on the phone.
Half the girls in the car think Phone Man is adorable. Half of us are not impressed and think he is just a few birthday candles away from looking like Ernest P. Worrel of Ernest Goes to Camp fame.
But we are ogling just the same while Candy exits the car to talk with the volunteer and to pay her. Our car is too far from the booth window.
Ernest/Phone Man knows we are eyeing him like a piece of meat. Candy thinks he looks even better up close. I keep thinking "Know-what-I-mean-Vern?"
And suddenly, Candy is mooning us. Continuing to speak with the volunteer all the while, but mooning us.
We are all in hysterics, which Ernest/Phone Man seems not to understand, having missed the mooning, and as Candy gets back into the car, pants restored to their upright position, he introduces himself. "Hi. I'm Steve."
And we are out of here. As we pull away laughing at having been mooned, Candy explains that her quandary had been trying to figure out how to flash him the girls without the lady noticing. She'd only settled for a mooning as plan B.
Buckle your seat belts, ladies. It's going to be a bumpy night.
Quite literally.
There is a mountainous desert park nearby that offers beautiful panoramic views, gorgeous natural terrain and a great opportunity for a workout as part of the deal. We pile into a car and head in that direction.
We get to the booth where we'll retrieve our trail map and pay to enter the park. We stop and greet the volunteer in the booth. She is a spunky retiree who moments earlier had been chatting with a handsome man who was now standing in the shade of the booth, out of the sweltering sun, and talking on his cell phone.
Candy rolls down the window and greets both the volunteer and the hottie on the phone.
Half the girls in the car think Phone Man is adorable. Half of us are not impressed and think he is just a few birthday candles away from looking like Ernest P. Worrel of Ernest Goes to Camp fame.
But we are ogling just the same while Candy exits the car to talk with the volunteer and to pay her. Our car is too far from the booth window.
Ernest/Phone Man knows we are eyeing him like a piece of meat. Candy thinks he looks even better up close. I keep thinking "Know-what-I-mean-Vern?"
And suddenly, Candy is mooning us. Continuing to speak with the volunteer all the while, but mooning us.
We are all in hysterics, which Ernest/Phone Man seems not to understand, having missed the mooning, and as Candy gets back into the car, pants restored to their upright position, he introduces himself. "Hi. I'm Steve."
And we are out of here. As we pull away laughing at having been mooned, Candy explains that her quandary had been trying to figure out how to flash him the girls without the lady noticing. She'd only settled for a mooning as plan B.
Buckle your seat belts, ladies. It's going to be a bumpy night.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
It's Yesterday Once More
It is a rare and beautiful thing to find a bunch of confident, assertive, gregarious women who generously support and defend each other, champion each other’s causes, genuinely laugh at each others jokes, celebrate each others good fortunes, suffer each others losses and share the spot light amiably and willingly. To have friendships like these is a rich reward with interest that is compounded daily. To travel with these same friends is always an adventure.
Morning broke on the first full day of the trip. Thank God for plantation shutters that darken the room so the people in the bedrooms, who aren't twenty anymore, can get an adequate amount of beauty sleep. Otherwise, there would be Hell to pay.
We spend the morning in our jammies, sipping mugs of coffee and rehashing the antics of the night before. There is quite a lot of ground to cover.
This is arguably my favorite part of the trip: hearing the somewhat hyperbolized versions of everyone's stories and observations - especially the ones that materialized while others of us were engrossed in our own social misadventures.
- A spot on reenactment of someone's unique dance maneuvers, complete with facial expressions.
- A description of the couple who both would need to be weighed with a cattle scale, who wore matching blingy western belts which were only barely visible peaking out from with the rolls of fat into which they were jammed.
- This one or that one's faintly concealed heart palpitations for another of us.
- The numerous impromptu gymnastics - due to misguided dance moves, too few seats in a crowded car, vertigo, or plain old overindulgence aggravated by jet lag.
- A revelation that one of us would make a fortune if forced to go to work as a stripper, if they would only play "You Can Leave Your Hat On" over and over again.
- A bull fight.
- A polka.
- A sidesplitting argument with a cranky bar tender.
From the start it is clear that the Krotchfelts are a new breed of girl being welcomed to the pack.
Based on an interaction between them, which could have been mistaken for stand up comedy, and which could have easily dovetailed into a nasty little hair pull, I was beginning to understand what made them both tick.
Attention. Each was motivated by attention. One sister clearly relished the spotlight, and the other was willing to fight a little to keep a few square feet of stage for herself. One, an exhibitionist of sorts, the other a willing sidekick.
It was a new twist in the same old cocktail, but so far it was pure entertainment.
Morning broke on the first full day of the trip. Thank God for plantation shutters that darken the room so the people in the bedrooms, who aren't twenty anymore, can get an adequate amount of beauty sleep. Otherwise, there would be Hell to pay.
We spend the morning in our jammies, sipping mugs of coffee and rehashing the antics of the night before. There is quite a lot of ground to cover.
This is arguably my favorite part of the trip: hearing the somewhat hyperbolized versions of everyone's stories and observations - especially the ones that materialized while others of us were engrossed in our own social misadventures.
- A spot on reenactment of someone's unique dance maneuvers, complete with facial expressions.
- A description of the couple who both would need to be weighed with a cattle scale, who wore matching blingy western belts which were only barely visible peaking out from with the rolls of fat into which they were jammed.
- This one or that one's faintly concealed heart palpitations for another of us.
- The numerous impromptu gymnastics - due to misguided dance moves, too few seats in a crowded car, vertigo, or plain old overindulgence aggravated by jet lag.
- A revelation that one of us would make a fortune if forced to go to work as a stripper, if they would only play "You Can Leave Your Hat On" over and over again.
- A bull fight.
- A polka.
- A sidesplitting argument with a cranky bar tender.
From the start it is clear that the Krotchfelts are a new breed of girl being welcomed to the pack.
Based on an interaction between them, which could have been mistaken for stand up comedy, and which could have easily dovetailed into a nasty little hair pull, I was beginning to understand what made them both tick.
Attention. Each was motivated by attention. One sister clearly relished the spotlight, and the other was willing to fight a little to keep a few square feet of stage for herself. One, an exhibitionist of sorts, the other a willing sidekick.
It was a new twist in the same old cocktail, but so far it was pure entertainment.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Wasted Away Again in Margaritaville
There is a God.
Though we bobbed and weaved all the way over hill and dale to the damn Tahiti Tom strip mall, and had a good laugh about having been there before and having been unable to figure out how to lock our car, which at the time had been stuffed to the ceiling with luggage and just begging to be robbed, when we arrived, there was nary a car in the lot. OK there were three. My guess was bartender, bar back, fry cook.
Yippee.
As we spilled out of our respective vehicles, Chinese Fire Drill style, I was privately having an I Told You So moment. That’ll teach everyone to board a plane and drive miles out of the way to drink prefab cocktails at a cheesy franchise bar. McDonald's with beer taps. I’m not kidding. That uninteresting.
We enter the bar. You can literally hear the bartender’s rag brushing against the bar as he wipes it down. Not a good thing. We are THE only patrons.
We belly up and order an astonishing number of medicinal drinks and decide to make our own fun. Thank God for designated drivers.
And as if on cue, suddenly there are two random dudes on stage, telling us that they are the band, for chrissake, just back from break! (Break from what? Studying?) Alejandro and I approach them about what they play. They reply that they’ll play anything we want; the first one is for me.
My kind of band.
And in spite of it being a ghost town – on a Thursday night no less – the band played on and on quite admirably and we danced and danced (and yes, ate real food, if you can call prepackaged frozen hors d’oeuvres real food) until the bright lights came on, last rounds were downed, and two additional patrons who had snuck in unnoticed were walking out with us.
In the end I find that I have eaten my own words. We are having exactly the fun we came to have and are taking our instant party back to our house.
Though we bobbed and weaved all the way over hill and dale to the damn Tahiti Tom strip mall, and had a good laugh about having been there before and having been unable to figure out how to lock our car, which at the time had been stuffed to the ceiling with luggage and just begging to be robbed, when we arrived, there was nary a car in the lot. OK there were three. My guess was bartender, bar back, fry cook.
Yippee.
As we spilled out of our respective vehicles, Chinese Fire Drill style, I was privately having an I Told You So moment. That’ll teach everyone to board a plane and drive miles out of the way to drink prefab cocktails at a cheesy franchise bar. McDonald's with beer taps. I’m not kidding. That uninteresting.
We enter the bar. You can literally hear the bartender’s rag brushing against the bar as he wipes it down. Not a good thing. We are THE only patrons.
We belly up and order an astonishing number of medicinal drinks and decide to make our own fun. Thank God for designated drivers.
And as if on cue, suddenly there are two random dudes on stage, telling us that they are the band, for chrissake, just back from break! (Break from what? Studying?) Alejandro and I approach them about what they play. They reply that they’ll play anything we want; the first one is for me.
My kind of band.
And in spite of it being a ghost town – on a Thursday night no less – the band played on and on quite admirably and we danced and danced (and yes, ate real food, if you can call prepackaged frozen hors d’oeuvres real food) until the bright lights came on, last rounds were downed, and two additional patrons who had snuck in unnoticed were walking out with us.
In the end I find that I have eaten my own words. We are having exactly the fun we came to have and are taking our instant party back to our house.
Friday, December 17, 2010
On the Road Again
We wend our way through the barely lit and poorly signed streets of the desert terrain in search of the elusive bar. Elusive because it is rumored to be a coveted hang out, off the road, not marked by a sign, known only to locals and therefore sure to be an exclusive crowd. We are meeting some of the folks we’ve gotten to know there. It should be loads of fun.
Or not.
The last time I was here I was planning to marry J. Had big plans. Had the world by the ass.
What a difference a year makes. And now that all of that has been tossed into a blender and scrambled so as to be unrecognizable, I would likely have some explaining to do. I am sure all our friends will be asking about the wedding and all that. If only out of politeness.
But Joy assures me that Priscilla has filled everyone in on that particularly disastrous topic and I will not be dragged to my frowny place by some well intentioned person who inquired brightly about what my dress looked like. Again if only out of politeness.
After several ill-fated treks across uneven sandlots in pursuit of the bar known to have pit fires and dancing, (which, with abundant availability of beer might not actually be such a hot idea…) we finally pull our overcrowded, now filthy rental into the lot of the bar.
And within minutes, our friends have arrived. Everyone is greeted warmly or introduced and then greeted warmly. We are our own instant party.
Beers are ordered and we start to break into small conversational groups and drift in different directions. It’s been a long year and we have catching up to do. I am in a group that takes seats on the wooden tables that extend like bicycle spokes from the dance floor. Those who were once Boy Scouts get the pit fires lit. There is a man playing Johnny Cash on stage. All is right with the world.
But the Krotchfelts, who are meeting most of the crowd for the first time tonight are not jazzed by the assortment of people on hand. To be honest, there were only maybe two other people at the place (on a Thursday night!) and I am not even sure they were not employees.
They want to find a crowd to wow and there isn’t enough of a mob to get a real scene going. They get a suggestion from someone outside the group. We should go to Tahiti Tom’s. They are enthusiastically endorsing the idea to everyone in small groups.
They get to my table. I am seated with Alejandro. He turns to me once Taffy has left and says “Ever hear of the place?”
Hear of it? Better than that, I’ve been there. To see some of our other friends whose band has played there. The band having been the only thing that redeemed the place. Tahiti Tom’s being a franchise in a strip mall with a dorky tropical theme and uninteresting beer selection.
Alejandro whispers in a few ears that he is happy to stay where he is, and believes there are others that are too. And that the place is rumored to suck.
The Krotchfelts begin to whine that they forgot to eat all day and are starved.
Really? Unless you sustained a head injury earlier in the day, who forgets to eat? I offer very brightly that the bar serves hot dogs. A dog and some Cheetos would suffice.
No, they want real food.
Alejandro, the organizer, offers that the people that are suffering from low blood sugar can take a car full of people to Tahitis or wherever and the rest of us will stay and enjoy the cool place we’d come to in the first place before everyone became conveniently undernourished.
There is much back and forth discussion. I have made my opinion clear. I would rather be burned at the stake than have to go to Tahiti Toms. I am assured by Alejandro that if it sucks, we’ll scramble and find a better venue.
In the end, we all decide to go. The Krotchfelts have secured directions and will lead the way. I take a seat in the other car.
Or not.
The last time I was here I was planning to marry J. Had big plans. Had the world by the ass.
What a difference a year makes. And now that all of that has been tossed into a blender and scrambled so as to be unrecognizable, I would likely have some explaining to do. I am sure all our friends will be asking about the wedding and all that. If only out of politeness.
But Joy assures me that Priscilla has filled everyone in on that particularly disastrous topic and I will not be dragged to my frowny place by some well intentioned person who inquired brightly about what my dress looked like. Again if only out of politeness.
After several ill-fated treks across uneven sandlots in pursuit of the bar known to have pit fires and dancing, (which, with abundant availability of beer might not actually be such a hot idea…) we finally pull our overcrowded, now filthy rental into the lot of the bar.
And within minutes, our friends have arrived. Everyone is greeted warmly or introduced and then greeted warmly. We are our own instant party.
Beers are ordered and we start to break into small conversational groups and drift in different directions. It’s been a long year and we have catching up to do. I am in a group that takes seats on the wooden tables that extend like bicycle spokes from the dance floor. Those who were once Boy Scouts get the pit fires lit. There is a man playing Johnny Cash on stage. All is right with the world.
But the Krotchfelts, who are meeting most of the crowd for the first time tonight are not jazzed by the assortment of people on hand. To be honest, there were only maybe two other people at the place (on a Thursday night!) and I am not even sure they were not employees.
They want to find a crowd to wow and there isn’t enough of a mob to get a real scene going. They get a suggestion from someone outside the group. We should go to Tahiti Tom’s. They are enthusiastically endorsing the idea to everyone in small groups.
They get to my table. I am seated with Alejandro. He turns to me once Taffy has left and says “Ever hear of the place?”
Hear of it? Better than that, I’ve been there. To see some of our other friends whose band has played there. The band having been the only thing that redeemed the place. Tahiti Tom’s being a franchise in a strip mall with a dorky tropical theme and uninteresting beer selection.
Alejandro whispers in a few ears that he is happy to stay where he is, and believes there are others that are too. And that the place is rumored to suck.
The Krotchfelts begin to whine that they forgot to eat all day and are starved.
Really? Unless you sustained a head injury earlier in the day, who forgets to eat? I offer very brightly that the bar serves hot dogs. A dog and some Cheetos would suffice.
No, they want real food.
Alejandro, the organizer, offers that the people that are suffering from low blood sugar can take a car full of people to Tahitis or wherever and the rest of us will stay and enjoy the cool place we’d come to in the first place before everyone became conveniently undernourished.
There is much back and forth discussion. I have made my opinion clear. I would rather be burned at the stake than have to go to Tahiti Toms. I am assured by Alejandro that if it sucks, we’ll scramble and find a better venue.
In the end, we all decide to go. The Krotchfelts have secured directions and will lead the way. I take a seat in the other car.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Girls Just Wanna Have Fu-un
Joy and I exit the plane and stand around the baggage carousel chomping at the proverbial bit. With every passing moment that we spend listening to tattooed mullet man bellow on his phone and wait for our luggage to emerge from the bowels of the airport, we are missing precious moments of what we are sure is a ripping good happy hour at our resort villa. And we still have a car to rent and ground to cover. And it is rush hour.
And so after much weaving through traffic and avoiding rush hour fender benders and pulling in and out of dark and even darker places trying to see what dimly-lit place we’d happened upon while searching for the also dimly lit resort, we finally arrived at the villa and the games could officially begin.
Already having claimed beds were Kate, who secures the villa with her amazing feats of business accomplishment each year, her sister Priscilla, who joins us as often as possible, and Jackie, whose husband is running in some insane athletic event later that weekend and who is here to support him, but is getting in a little girl time in the bargain too.
And then there are two gals I’ve not met before. Sisters that Kate and Priscilla know from some past career that they’ve all moved on from but with whom they’ve kept up a friendship despite years past and miles in between. Candy and Taffy Krotchfelt.
I arrive, and am immediately handed a Margarita, which I accept graciously from Priscilla. Kate emerges from the loft and hugs Joy and me. Jackie calls from the bathroom where she is flat ironing. And then one after the other, Taffy and Candy come out of their bedroom to introduce themselves. Joy and I are greeted warming with hugs. The girls have come out to say hello and are wearing naught but bras and panties and a little jewelry.
It is like a slumber party in full swing. Clothes emerging from suitcases and being shared and tried on and modeled for sisterly opinion.
Cocktails are poured and pictures snapped.
Jewelry is affixed to earlobes and necks and wrists and exchanged until all is just right.
Candy shows us all a trick for positioning our boobs in our bras for the most positive gravity defying effect. (I am stunned that this is precisely the maneuver I noticed Estelle subscribed to for years when we lived under the same roof…I try to drink the thought out of my head.)
Eventually, we all decide we are reasonably pleased with how we’ve turned out, down the last remaining mouthfuls of rummy frozen concoctions and head out the door.
Over the years we’ve gotten to know some locals and we are off to a place they’ve suggested. We pile like a bunch of high schoolers at a drive-in into one car. With zero visibility over the heads and torsos of 5 ladies in the backseat, I promptly back the car into a cactus.
But not to worry, we are all on vacation and all in rare form. Off to the races we go.
And so after much weaving through traffic and avoiding rush hour fender benders and pulling in and out of dark and even darker places trying to see what dimly-lit place we’d happened upon while searching for the also dimly lit resort, we finally arrived at the villa and the games could officially begin.
Already having claimed beds were Kate, who secures the villa with her amazing feats of business accomplishment each year, her sister Priscilla, who joins us as often as possible, and Jackie, whose husband is running in some insane athletic event later that weekend and who is here to support him, but is getting in a little girl time in the bargain too.
And then there are two gals I’ve not met before. Sisters that Kate and Priscilla know from some past career that they’ve all moved on from but with whom they’ve kept up a friendship despite years past and miles in between. Candy and Taffy Krotchfelt.
I arrive, and am immediately handed a Margarita, which I accept graciously from Priscilla. Kate emerges from the loft and hugs Joy and me. Jackie calls from the bathroom where she is flat ironing. And then one after the other, Taffy and Candy come out of their bedroom to introduce themselves. Joy and I are greeted warming with hugs. The girls have come out to say hello and are wearing naught but bras and panties and a little jewelry.
It is like a slumber party in full swing. Clothes emerging from suitcases and being shared and tried on and modeled for sisterly opinion.
Cocktails are poured and pictures snapped.
Jewelry is affixed to earlobes and necks and wrists and exchanged until all is just right.
Candy shows us all a trick for positioning our boobs in our bras for the most positive gravity defying effect. (I am stunned that this is precisely the maneuver I noticed Estelle subscribed to for years when we lived under the same roof…I try to drink the thought out of my head.)
Eventually, we all decide we are reasonably pleased with how we’ve turned out, down the last remaining mouthfuls of rummy frozen concoctions and head out the door.
Over the years we’ve gotten to know some locals and we are off to a place they’ve suggested. We pile like a bunch of high schoolers at a drive-in into one car. With zero visibility over the heads and torsos of 5 ladies in the backseat, I promptly back the car into a cactus.
But not to worry, we are all on vacation and all in rare form. Off to the races we go.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Fly Me to the Moon
There is nothing like a Girls Weekend. Especially if The Girls are lucky enough to stretch it into 5 days, fly to warmer climes, and stay in first class accommodations. The possibilities are infinitely more bountiful under these circumstances.
And it is that time of year, for THAT particular trip, with a few steady-ender gal pals and a few less frequent flyers who round out the bevy of rare beauty and humor.
And this is how I come to be in the airport on a Thursday afternoon, with Joy, and what seems like all of humanity. The tattooed guy with the mullet and the wife beater, who has no ability to lower his cell phone conversation volume below stadium level. The pretty boy carrying his mother’s paisley purse and poodle. The dozen or so passengers who can’t distinguish between what is a carry-on and what is a steamer trunk and hold up the whole line while they have to gate check at the last minute. I am sure that is most convenient for them. For the rest of us, not so much.
Thankfully, boarding is otherwise uneventful, and the mullet with the phone is not sharing our row.
The flight is another story.
Because our flight is being served by the Angry Steward.
It is bad enough that you have to pay extra to take a bag on the plane. (Isn’t it sort of understood that if you are going somewhere you can’t just arrive without your stuff? It’s not like clothing and shoes are optional – unless of course your destination is a nudist colony – but you do eventually have to leave the nudies and come home, right?) And as if to remind you that things are tough all over, pillows and blankets are no longer the norm, and movies must be purchased – well, at least the earplugs. (The movies will show for free. Hearing them is extra.)
Now we have the Angry Steward.
Joy and I first knew we were in for a bumpy ride when the Angry Steward encouraged us, to ensure a more smoothly running flight, to limit our trips to the bathroom.
An idiot says what?
Show of hands, please. Does anyone know anyone who visits the onboard restroom for any reason other than pure bladder bursting, colon blowing necessity? I would hold it from here to Tokyo if I could to avoid a trip to the little claustrophobic germ capsule, but I can’t. So I go. And because the ironically named Courtesy Cart might be delayed for a millisecond while someone’s Aunt Tillie shuffles back from a quick check of the Depends, Angry Steward wants to make it seem like we might all be in trouble if we ask for a hall pass too often or “for no apparent reason.”
And because there are exactly two such bathrooms in steerage, and no one wants to use the one in the back where the flight attendants hang out with scalding pots of coffee for fear that someone will go all Steven Slater without warning, there is a crowd of 3 forming near the one mid-plane.
And here comes Angry Steward, thankfully not holding a pot of coffee. He takes to the microphone, and jarring anyone lucky enough to have fallen asleep in his impossibly narrow and upright chair, reminds us, with ever so pissy a tone, that congregating in the aisles is strictly prohibited.
Bunch of rebels. Taking an unauthorized leak and loitering all in the same trip to the head. Nice.
My favorite injustice though, had absolutely no impact to me personally. It was just a power play exercised by the Angry Steward, over something that the attendants with the more pleasant dispositions casually refrained from exercising themselves.
Seated in front of Joy and me was a member of our US Armed Forces with a working dog on a leash. The soldier had everything he needed for the dog and the dog had an assigned seat that presumably had been paid for, even if it was paid for by Uncle Sam.
The dog was young, just over a year old. A beautiful pup with a gorgeous well cared for coat. He was perfectly quiet and very well behaved. Never heard so much as a peep from him (which can’t be said for the guy across the aisle who, oblivious to his own noises because of his headphones, loudly snorted phlegm to the back of his brain cavity every 60 seconds or so throughout the flight) And the ladies around the handsome young soldier and his pup were charmed. Heaped them with attention. Bought his snacks. Offered to buy him drinks, which he declined.
And just to pee all over it, Angry Steward pranced down the aisle and told the soldier that his dog could not be on the seat and had to sit in the (impossibly small, barely-fits-my-knees) space in front of the seat. For the remaining four hours of the flight.
What? In case he doo-dooed on the seats that countless people have thrown up on? In case his nails dug into the fine imported pleather? Really?
The soldier complied. The dog was obedient and remained quiet.
But little old ladies up and down the cabin were preparing to throw their scalding coffee on the Angry Steward.
We can't manage to reliably reach a destination on time but gosh darn it while the plane is in the air and there is nowhere to run, we are going to make sure every passenger is as compliant and submissive as Patty Hearst. I guess some people are so desperate to be the boss of something they'll even settle for 180 captives a mile in the air.
And it is that time of year, for THAT particular trip, with a few steady-ender gal pals and a few less frequent flyers who round out the bevy of rare beauty and humor.
And this is how I come to be in the airport on a Thursday afternoon, with Joy, and what seems like all of humanity. The tattooed guy with the mullet and the wife beater, who has no ability to lower his cell phone conversation volume below stadium level. The pretty boy carrying his mother’s paisley purse and poodle. The dozen or so passengers who can’t distinguish between what is a carry-on and what is a steamer trunk and hold up the whole line while they have to gate check at the last minute. I am sure that is most convenient for them. For the rest of us, not so much.
Thankfully, boarding is otherwise uneventful, and the mullet with the phone is not sharing our row.
The flight is another story.
Because our flight is being served by the Angry Steward.
It is bad enough that you have to pay extra to take a bag on the plane. (Isn’t it sort of understood that if you are going somewhere you can’t just arrive without your stuff? It’s not like clothing and shoes are optional – unless of course your destination is a nudist colony – but you do eventually have to leave the nudies and come home, right?) And as if to remind you that things are tough all over, pillows and blankets are no longer the norm, and movies must be purchased – well, at least the earplugs. (The movies will show for free. Hearing them is extra.)
Now we have the Angry Steward.
Joy and I first knew we were in for a bumpy ride when the Angry Steward encouraged us, to ensure a more smoothly running flight, to limit our trips to the bathroom.
An idiot says what?
Show of hands, please. Does anyone know anyone who visits the onboard restroom for any reason other than pure bladder bursting, colon blowing necessity? I would hold it from here to Tokyo if I could to avoid a trip to the little claustrophobic germ capsule, but I can’t. So I go. And because the ironically named Courtesy Cart might be delayed for a millisecond while someone’s Aunt Tillie shuffles back from a quick check of the Depends, Angry Steward wants to make it seem like we might all be in trouble if we ask for a hall pass too often or “for no apparent reason.”
And because there are exactly two such bathrooms in steerage, and no one wants to use the one in the back where the flight attendants hang out with scalding pots of coffee for fear that someone will go all Steven Slater without warning, there is a crowd of 3 forming near the one mid-plane.
And here comes Angry Steward, thankfully not holding a pot of coffee. He takes to the microphone, and jarring anyone lucky enough to have fallen asleep in his impossibly narrow and upright chair, reminds us, with ever so pissy a tone, that congregating in the aisles is strictly prohibited.
Bunch of rebels. Taking an unauthorized leak and loitering all in the same trip to the head. Nice.
My favorite injustice though, had absolutely no impact to me personally. It was just a power play exercised by the Angry Steward, over something that the attendants with the more pleasant dispositions casually refrained from exercising themselves.
Seated in front of Joy and me was a member of our US Armed Forces with a working dog on a leash. The soldier had everything he needed for the dog and the dog had an assigned seat that presumably had been paid for, even if it was paid for by Uncle Sam.
The dog was young, just over a year old. A beautiful pup with a gorgeous well cared for coat. He was perfectly quiet and very well behaved. Never heard so much as a peep from him (which can’t be said for the guy across the aisle who, oblivious to his own noises because of his headphones, loudly snorted phlegm to the back of his brain cavity every 60 seconds or so throughout the flight) And the ladies around the handsome young soldier and his pup were charmed. Heaped them with attention. Bought his snacks. Offered to buy him drinks, which he declined.
And just to pee all over it, Angry Steward pranced down the aisle and told the soldier that his dog could not be on the seat and had to sit in the (impossibly small, barely-fits-my-knees) space in front of the seat. For the remaining four hours of the flight.
What? In case he doo-dooed on the seats that countless people have thrown up on? In case his nails dug into the fine imported pleather? Really?
The soldier complied. The dog was obedient and remained quiet.
But little old ladies up and down the cabin were preparing to throw their scalding coffee on the Angry Steward.
We can't manage to reliably reach a destination on time but gosh darn it while the plane is in the air and there is nowhere to run, we are going to make sure every passenger is as compliant and submissive as Patty Hearst. I guess some people are so desperate to be the boss of something they'll even settle for 180 captives a mile in the air.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Surrender Dorothy
I am preparing to take a flight.
I longingly recall days when you threw a bathing suit and a random bunch of stuff in a bag and dashed out the door and screamed into the airport with barely enough time to sprint to the gate and breathlessly check in with the airline staff moments before they sealed the door to the plane.
And then sat in your seat in hopeful anticipation of the drink cart and whatever meal was being served before the movie was shown while you snuggled up under the airline-issued blanket, head on the pillow they also provided, and if you were up all night writing a paper, caught a little shut eye under the eye mask so you could arrive refreshed in Fort Lauderdale.
If only.
I am not complaining. This is not going to be a civil liberties rant. It is unfortunate that there is so much pre-fight rigmarole and checking and re-checking and screening and scanning. But it is more unfortunate that its genesis lies in acts of pure hatred that will scar the American conscious for decades to come. My generation’s Pearl Harbor. Perhaps more infamous. Who dares compare?
But things have gotten so intense and so unpredictable with the pre-flight checklist that no one really knows what they are supposed to do. I recall my sister, who bravely flew to Huntsville, AL days after 9/11 (flying so soon after being the brave part, not Huntsville…) and being indignant that her bag search yielded a menacing pair of tweezers that she had to forfeit if she was going to board the plane. She reluctantly gave in but was incensed at the infringement on her rights to perfectly face-framing brows.
Now, thanks to people like the Shoe Bomber and other loons who make unbalanced lunatic threats to our collective airborne safety, things like lip gloss, too many ounces of hair gel, and even real live eating utensils are considered weapons-grade materials. Look out! I may actually cause some real chaffing with my butter knife!
So while on a little trip to a local drug store to buy last minute incidentals for the trip, I picked up one of those little kits with the “approved” sized bottles that you can pour your products into rather than have to make room for the sure-to-leak full sized bottles in your checked baggage. And I picked up a pack of the quart sized bags the stuff is all supposed to go in.
And I got to thinking, if there is a limit on the volume of liquids and gels, is there also a limit on the number of these little bags that one can pack? Because presumably, if you packed 10 baggies filled with 3-4 ounces of some incendiary fluid, couldn’t you little by little concoct a little Molotov cocktail in spite of the safety measures?
So I went on line to see if I could get a little advice…and know up front if I was going to get nailed for having curling balm AND straightening serum and would have to make a choice.
And do you know, for all my searching, I could find nothing, not a word about how many little bags of little bottles one is permitted to jam into their carry on.
I did however, find some other handy advice about what you cannot bring in your carry on baggage:
1 – A grenade (Whew! Glad we have some clear direction on that!)
2 – A machete (Damn. Wasn’t counting on that restriction)
3 – A scythe (I’m sorry Grim Reaper. No flying for you.)
4 – An ice pick (So therefore no impromptu in flight lobotomies)
5 – Nunchuks (So I would assume ninja throwing stars would be no-nos as well)
But before I remove my jewelry, my wallet, my shoes, my belt, my scarf, my coat, and surrender anything remotely capable of becoming a weapon, I have to get past the sentry with the black light pen who will be examining my papers. And here is where I get to hand in and explain my license with my married name and the flimsy little paper card documenting my legal name change, which became official one month after I'd renewed my license, natch.
Joy goes first. The sentry has a sense of humor at least. He remarks on her her destination. She says "Girls weekend." He tells her to be good. She says, "Not a chance." Laughs all around.
My turn.
I hand him my license and name change. He gets out the pen and is waving it over them sort of intently. He unfolds the preposterous little paper card. He holds it up to his face as though he is Mr. Magoo. Then holds it away, looking perplexed.
I speak up. "Driver's license and name change."
He looks up. "Congratulations?" I think he thinks I just got married.
"Divorce."
"That's what I meant."
I smile. "Lost 180 ugly pounds and the boring last name in the same whack of the gavel."
He laughs.
He gestures toward Joy. "You with her?" he asks.
I nod still smiling.
"I'm not even going to tell you to be good."
We high five. Not a chance, friend. Not a chance.
I longingly recall days when you threw a bathing suit and a random bunch of stuff in a bag and dashed out the door and screamed into the airport with barely enough time to sprint to the gate and breathlessly check in with the airline staff moments before they sealed the door to the plane.
And then sat in your seat in hopeful anticipation of the drink cart and whatever meal was being served before the movie was shown while you snuggled up under the airline-issued blanket, head on the pillow they also provided, and if you were up all night writing a paper, caught a little shut eye under the eye mask so you could arrive refreshed in Fort Lauderdale.
If only.
I am not complaining. This is not going to be a civil liberties rant. It is unfortunate that there is so much pre-fight rigmarole and checking and re-checking and screening and scanning. But it is more unfortunate that its genesis lies in acts of pure hatred that will scar the American conscious for decades to come. My generation’s Pearl Harbor. Perhaps more infamous. Who dares compare?
But things have gotten so intense and so unpredictable with the pre-flight checklist that no one really knows what they are supposed to do. I recall my sister, who bravely flew to Huntsville, AL days after 9/11 (flying so soon after being the brave part, not Huntsville…) and being indignant that her bag search yielded a menacing pair of tweezers that she had to forfeit if she was going to board the plane. She reluctantly gave in but was incensed at the infringement on her rights to perfectly face-framing brows.
Now, thanks to people like the Shoe Bomber and other loons who make unbalanced lunatic threats to our collective airborne safety, things like lip gloss, too many ounces of hair gel, and even real live eating utensils are considered weapons-grade materials. Look out! I may actually cause some real chaffing with my butter knife!
So while on a little trip to a local drug store to buy last minute incidentals for the trip, I picked up one of those little kits with the “approved” sized bottles that you can pour your products into rather than have to make room for the sure-to-leak full sized bottles in your checked baggage. And I picked up a pack of the quart sized bags the stuff is all supposed to go in.
And I got to thinking, if there is a limit on the volume of liquids and gels, is there also a limit on the number of these little bags that one can pack? Because presumably, if you packed 10 baggies filled with 3-4 ounces of some incendiary fluid, couldn’t you little by little concoct a little Molotov cocktail in spite of the safety measures?
So I went on line to see if I could get a little advice…and know up front if I was going to get nailed for having curling balm AND straightening serum and would have to make a choice.
And do you know, for all my searching, I could find nothing, not a word about how many little bags of little bottles one is permitted to jam into their carry on.
I did however, find some other handy advice about what you cannot bring in your carry on baggage:
1 – A grenade (Whew! Glad we have some clear direction on that!)
2 – A machete (Damn. Wasn’t counting on that restriction)
3 – A scythe (I’m sorry Grim Reaper. No flying for you.)
4 – An ice pick (So therefore no impromptu in flight lobotomies)
5 – Nunchuks (So I would assume ninja throwing stars would be no-nos as well)
But before I remove my jewelry, my wallet, my shoes, my belt, my scarf, my coat, and surrender anything remotely capable of becoming a weapon, I have to get past the sentry with the black light pen who will be examining my papers. And here is where I get to hand in and explain my license with my married name and the flimsy little paper card documenting my legal name change, which became official one month after I'd renewed my license, natch.
Joy goes first. The sentry has a sense of humor at least. He remarks on her her destination. She says "Girls weekend." He tells her to be good. She says, "Not a chance." Laughs all around.
My turn.
I hand him my license and name change. He gets out the pen and is waving it over them sort of intently. He unfolds the preposterous little paper card. He holds it up to his face as though he is Mr. Magoo. Then holds it away, looking perplexed.
I speak up. "Driver's license and name change."
He looks up. "Congratulations?" I think he thinks I just got married.
"Divorce."
"That's what I meant."
I smile. "Lost 180 ugly pounds and the boring last name in the same whack of the gavel."
He laughs.
He gestures toward Joy. "You with her?" he asks.
I nod still smiling.
"I'm not even going to tell you to be good."
We high five. Not a chance, friend. Not a chance.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Casey at the Bat
I ignored that, let the rest of the day pass. The afternoon improved dramatically both professionally and due to a nice lull in texts from Casey.
My drive home began hopefully. And then it began to rain. And you know how that is. Half of the rush hour drivers become overly cautious and slow to a snail's pace for fear of hydroplaning (does anyone know anyone whose car has actually done that?) and the other half drives normally, but grows frustrated with the Nervous Pervis drivers gumming up the works and then turn into Road Ragers, complete with obscene gestures and brake slamming maneuvers just to show you who's King of the Road. It is a sight to behold.
But as Rain Man has said, "I am an excellent driver." I am alert, assertive, avoid the cars whose drivers have clearly taken chances and failed, drive by mirrors and make my moves with precision. I have my Dad to thank for that.
But today not everyone is so lucky. There is a little fender bender at the far side of the bridge and the wreck has nowhere to be moved to, the choices being, the lanes that it is in or the water. So I am sitting in my car and waiting in neutral.
Above the din of rain pounding on the roof and a darn good tune by The Killers, I hear my phone jingle.
Being that I am in stand-still traffic, I break with tradition and look at the phone.
Ugh. Casey.
"I am worried about you driving in this weather."
How charming.
Really? You are worried? What right do you have to be worried, and frankly, what are you worrying about? Rain? Is this my first day driving outside the desert? Have I not been driving quite admirably for 30 years????? And do I not impress you as being at least a reasonably capable adult? Let's understand that unless you've read my name in the Obituaries, I have things pretty much under control.
I take the time to text before traffic starts to move.
"Don't."
No emoticon. Just don't. I'll let him read the myriad meanings behind the word.
Don't worry.
Don't bother.
Don't you dare.
Don't care.
Don't call me anymore.
He sent one more message. About a week later. Something about guessing I've been busy.
Busy, yes. But as we all know, a good healthy dose of interest or desire kicks busy's ass every time.
I did not respond. And that was that.
"Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and some children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out."
My drive home began hopefully. And then it began to rain. And you know how that is. Half of the rush hour drivers become overly cautious and slow to a snail's pace for fear of hydroplaning (does anyone know anyone whose car has actually done that?) and the other half drives normally, but grows frustrated with the Nervous Pervis drivers gumming up the works and then turn into Road Ragers, complete with obscene gestures and brake slamming maneuvers just to show you who's King of the Road. It is a sight to behold.
But as Rain Man has said, "I am an excellent driver." I am alert, assertive, avoid the cars whose drivers have clearly taken chances and failed, drive by mirrors and make my moves with precision. I have my Dad to thank for that.
But today not everyone is so lucky. There is a little fender bender at the far side of the bridge and the wreck has nowhere to be moved to, the choices being, the lanes that it is in or the water. So I am sitting in my car and waiting in neutral.
Above the din of rain pounding on the roof and a darn good tune by The Killers, I hear my phone jingle.
Being that I am in stand-still traffic, I break with tradition and look at the phone.
Ugh. Casey.
"I am worried about you driving in this weather."
How charming.
Really? You are worried? What right do you have to be worried, and frankly, what are you worrying about? Rain? Is this my first day driving outside the desert? Have I not been driving quite admirably for 30 years????? And do I not impress you as being at least a reasonably capable adult? Let's understand that unless you've read my name in the Obituaries, I have things pretty much under control.
I take the time to text before traffic starts to move.
"Don't."
No emoticon. Just don't. I'll let him read the myriad meanings behind the word.
Don't worry.
Don't bother.
Don't you dare.
Don't care.
Don't call me anymore.
He sent one more message. About a week later. Something about guessing I've been busy.
Busy, yes. But as we all know, a good healthy dose of interest or desire kicks busy's ass every time.
I did not respond. And that was that.
"Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and some children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out."
Friday, December 10, 2010
Gag Me With a Spoon
I don't respond. Not about to take one figurative step toward him. Even in cyberspace.
About an hour later, he sends another.
"Hope your day is going great!" he writes brightly followed by a little smiley emoticon. Gag.
I ignore that one too.
Just before lunch and just following a rather heinous budget meeting attended by some grating colleagues, he sends yet another.
Starvation, low blood sugar and aggravation are a deadly combination. The last text about sends me sailing over the edge of reason into a briar patch of meanness.
"How are you doing today? :) "
My patience long gone, though not necessarily all because of Casey, I cock the gun and point it in his direction anyway.
"Cranky and miserable."
Probably not the morning-after-the-big-date response he was naively looking for. But brother, take a hint and go away.
"I figured that since you through (sic) me out last night. LOL :)"
I am not LOL-ing. I am not even L-ing on the inside where it counts. I am however, stifling a dry heave.
I don't respond.
But insecure is as insecure does. An hour later, another text. This one just correcting the grammatical error.
"Threw."
As in "threw up," which I nearly did.
About an hour later, he sends another.
"Hope your day is going great!" he writes brightly followed by a little smiley emoticon. Gag.
I ignore that one too.
Just before lunch and just following a rather heinous budget meeting attended by some grating colleagues, he sends yet another.
Starvation, low blood sugar and aggravation are a deadly combination. The last text about sends me sailing over the edge of reason into a briar patch of meanness.
"How are you doing today? :) "
My patience long gone, though not necessarily all because of Casey, I cock the gun and point it in his direction anyway.
"Cranky and miserable."
Probably not the morning-after-the-big-date response he was naively looking for. But brother, take a hint and go away.
"I figured that since you through (sic) me out last night. LOL :)"
I am not LOL-ing. I am not even L-ing on the inside where it counts. I am however, stifling a dry heave.
I don't respond.
But insecure is as insecure does. An hour later, another text. This one just correcting the grammatical error.
"Threw."
As in "threw up," which I nearly did.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Best Laid Plans
File that under "Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time."
Along with the Dorothy Hamill haircut, camping out for concert tickets to The Who, the Vegas wedding, and the tattoo in a spot where gravity and middle age are eventually going to distort it into something unrecognizable.
Still skeeving just a little but glad I'd had a good laugh with Mom, I drove to work thinking just how I was going to explain to "the Gals" just exactly how my date went. I wouldn't be able to dodge the questions. Even if I stacked meeting upon meeting, eventually I'd have to face the music.
And as I drove, I heard the familiar little tone my phone makes when I've gotten a text message. True to my friends in the Trauma department, I will not look at the phone while I am driving. Especially not on the bridge, high above a raging river, with a high speed train running along side the rails of the bridge and the driver in front of me applying her mascara in the rear view mirror of her minivan. A disaster just waiting to happen.
I get to work and as I ride the elevator from the roof of the parking garage to the lobby of my building I flip open the phone praying that the message is from my sister. Or my colleague that I'd texted from the loo the night before. Or one of my kids.
Or a collector or a bounty hunter or a stalker or the Devil himself. Anyone but Casey. Please.
A girl can dream.
Of course it was from Casey.
"Good morning, beautiful."
My stomach turned. I close my eyes and hope to vanish.
He knows where I live. He knows where I work. He knows where I worship. He knows my phone number. There is no escaping him and there is evidently nothing that can offend him into leaving me alone.
Or maybe there is.
I put my thinking cap on. It is more a warrior helmet. This is a project I can sink my jagged little teeth into.
Along with the Dorothy Hamill haircut, camping out for concert tickets to The Who, the Vegas wedding, and the tattoo in a spot where gravity and middle age are eventually going to distort it into something unrecognizable.
Still skeeving just a little but glad I'd had a good laugh with Mom, I drove to work thinking just how I was going to explain to "the Gals" just exactly how my date went. I wouldn't be able to dodge the questions. Even if I stacked meeting upon meeting, eventually I'd have to face the music.
And as I drove, I heard the familiar little tone my phone makes when I've gotten a text message. True to my friends in the Trauma department, I will not look at the phone while I am driving. Especially not on the bridge, high above a raging river, with a high speed train running along side the rails of the bridge and the driver in front of me applying her mascara in the rear view mirror of her minivan. A disaster just waiting to happen.
I get to work and as I ride the elevator from the roof of the parking garage to the lobby of my building I flip open the phone praying that the message is from my sister. Or my colleague that I'd texted from the loo the night before. Or one of my kids.
Or a collector or a bounty hunter or a stalker or the Devil himself. Anyone but Casey. Please.
A girl can dream.
Of course it was from Casey.
"Good morning, beautiful."
My stomach turned. I close my eyes and hope to vanish.
He knows where I live. He knows where I work. He knows where I worship. He knows my phone number. There is no escaping him and there is evidently nothing that can offend him into leaving me alone.
Or maybe there is.
I put my thinking cap on. It is more a warrior helmet. This is a project I can sink my jagged little teeth into.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Date
Two and half innings and 2 pints later, the game is over, our team won, Casey is jubilant, I am despondent. I give serious consideration to picking my nose in front of him.
It's late. It's a weeknight. I have to get home. Time to face the music.
Casey and I walk the few blocks to my house. We ascend the front steps and I am plotting what I am going to do to get rid of him, tactfully, gracefully, but in no uncertain terms. No need to repeat this mistake. He needs to begin his long drive home immediately.
He asks to use my bathroom.
And just like that, my opportunity to send him packing has passed in an instant. He's inside my house.
He returns from the bathroom, but he's taken so long that I have to go. Now.
I head upstairs trying to figure out what I am going to say that will make the point without beating him over the head. He has to go. No need to call me again. Thanks for an inferior evening.
I come down the steps expecting to find him standing in my center hall. He's not.
Incredulously, he's taken a seat in my livingroom and has turned on the TV! Like he's staying a while!
I go into the room and position myself between him and the TV on the bench in front of the sofa. "Casey, it's late. I need to get to sleep and you have a long drive. You should get going."
He changes the subject and begins to talk about something else entirely.
I repeat that he has to go. As in now. And I stand up and walk toward the door. Had he worn a coat I would have handed it to him to emphasize the gesture so he would get it.
I turn around and I thank him for dinner. He goes to hug me. Benign enough.
But then he tries to kiss me and I am completely wigging. I manage to dodge that horror show, but in the mean time, OMG, he reaches in for a sneak swipe at a boob!
Are we at PROM??????
I say "Enough of that!" and I literally push him away and in the direction of the door. He's still talking. Like everything is just grand. Has the whole world gone mad?
Once he is safely outside of my house, I push the door closed with a heavy thud and loudly click all the locks for emphasis.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I need a friend. I want to call J. I call my mother instead. I decide to laugh and begin to regale her with the story.
It's late. It's a weeknight. I have to get home. Time to face the music.
Casey and I walk the few blocks to my house. We ascend the front steps and I am plotting what I am going to do to get rid of him, tactfully, gracefully, but in no uncertain terms. No need to repeat this mistake. He needs to begin his long drive home immediately.
He asks to use my bathroom.
And just like that, my opportunity to send him packing has passed in an instant. He's inside my house.
He returns from the bathroom, but he's taken so long that I have to go. Now.
I head upstairs trying to figure out what I am going to say that will make the point without beating him over the head. He has to go. No need to call me again. Thanks for an inferior evening.
I come down the steps expecting to find him standing in my center hall. He's not.
Incredulously, he's taken a seat in my livingroom and has turned on the TV! Like he's staying a while!
I go into the room and position myself between him and the TV on the bench in front of the sofa. "Casey, it's late. I need to get to sleep and you have a long drive. You should get going."
He changes the subject and begins to talk about something else entirely.
I repeat that he has to go. As in now. And I stand up and walk toward the door. Had he worn a coat I would have handed it to him to emphasize the gesture so he would get it.
I turn around and I thank him for dinner. He goes to hug me. Benign enough.
But then he tries to kiss me and I am completely wigging. I manage to dodge that horror show, but in the mean time, OMG, he reaches in for a sneak swipe at a boob!
Are we at PROM??????
I say "Enough of that!" and I literally push him away and in the direction of the door. He's still talking. Like everything is just grand. Has the whole world gone mad?
Once he is safely outside of my house, I push the door closed with a heavy thud and loudly click all the locks for emphasis.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I need a friend. I want to call J. I call my mother instead. I decide to laugh and begin to regale her with the story.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Take Me Out to the Ball Game!
Take me out to the crowd!
Literally.
Casey and I leave the restaurant and walk up the street in the general direction of several local pubs. I am hoping to be surrounded by lots of people to avoid the alone part of the date.
We get to the first one. We can see through the window that there is a nice crowd and all the TVs are set to the game. It looks pretty inviting to be honest.
But this pub is one I never go to. I don't know anyone who goes there. It is not my haunt.
I make an excuse. "Let's not go in there. It smells." I had smelling on the brain.
Casey says, "It shouldn't. You can't smoke in any of these places anymore."
"Oh it's not the smoke, it's the food. You never leave there not smelling like mozzarella sticks."
I stear him up the street and across the road to MY haunt. On a game night, I will surely know the bartender and at least half the crowd. This will tip the date in a new direction.
We walk in and I know absolutely no one. Not a bartender. Not a patron. Not even the owner is there tonight. He's AT the game. I am doomed.
I tell Casey what I'll be drinking and head to the ladies room. I need moral support.
Once inside the stall, I consider my options. I could call Charlotte, but she would probably put on her superhero cape and come swooping in to send Casey packing. And whimpering. I really should handle this myself. It is good practice for getting rid of future bad dates.
I text my friend from work. She'll know what to do. "You will NOT BE-LIEVE how awful my date is." No reply.
I am utterly on my own.
I exit the ladies room without even putting on more lipstick. Maybe if I look a little more like a washed out hag I'll have better luck chasing Casey away.
Literally.
Casey and I leave the restaurant and walk up the street in the general direction of several local pubs. I am hoping to be surrounded by lots of people to avoid the alone part of the date.
We get to the first one. We can see through the window that there is a nice crowd and all the TVs are set to the game. It looks pretty inviting to be honest.
But this pub is one I never go to. I don't know anyone who goes there. It is not my haunt.
I make an excuse. "Let's not go in there. It smells." I had smelling on the brain.
Casey says, "It shouldn't. You can't smoke in any of these places anymore."
"Oh it's not the smoke, it's the food. You never leave there not smelling like mozzarella sticks."
I stear him up the street and across the road to MY haunt. On a game night, I will surely know the bartender and at least half the crowd. This will tip the date in a new direction.
We walk in and I know absolutely no one. Not a bartender. Not a patron. Not even the owner is there tonight. He's AT the game. I am doomed.
I tell Casey what I'll be drinking and head to the ladies room. I need moral support.
Once inside the stall, I consider my options. I could call Charlotte, but she would probably put on her superhero cape and come swooping in to send Casey packing. And whimpering. I really should handle this myself. It is good practice for getting rid of future bad dates.
I text my friend from work. She'll know what to do. "You will NOT BE-LIEVE how awful my date is." No reply.
I am utterly on my own.
I exit the ladies room without even putting on more lipstick. Maybe if I look a little more like a washed out hag I'll have better luck chasing Casey away.
Monday, December 6, 2010
The 7th Inning Stretch
A good date is a really wonderful thing. Whether you are in high school, or college or somewhere out in the world, a good date is magical.
There is a time in a good first date when you know. When the conversation has become easy and you start to feel all warm and gooey inside and you want to be alone with the other person. Want to hold his or her hand. Want to feel that arm around your shoulder. And you want to leave wherever you are so you can be free to do that.
I had no such experience with Casey. And in fact was a little panic stricken that dinner was coming to an end and there were hours left in the evening.
His son texted him. He flipped open his phone. I secretly crossed my fingers hoping that someone was experiencing some kind of heinous life threatening (or at least disfiguring)emergency and he had to rush home to head off a tragedy in the making.
No such luck. It was just a baseball game update. Our team was in the heat of playoff battle.
There is nothing more unsexy than a sporting event, and Casey and I are both fans, so I used the double edged sword to try to direct the rest of the date in a way I could stand.
"Do you want to watch the rest of the game somewhere? If we hurry we can catch the last 2 or 3 innings."
Casey makes some inane comment about how many oversized TVs he has...his daughter always gets "stuck watching Hannah Montana on the little one" which is 72 inches. Like I care. My TV as I've said, is little more than something else to dust.
Concerned that he thought I was suggesting that we watch it in my living room, which I was not, I suggest a local pub.
And then to throw a little more water on the idea, I suggest that his brother might want to meet us there.
"Geez, I haven't seen Jeff in a dog's life! I can't believe he's lived right here all this time and
I haven't bumped into him. Give him a call! See if he can join us!"
I could not read Casey's genuine reaction to that suggestion, but he agreed to it on the surface. Excused himself to use the men's room, call his kids and call Jeff. He emerged from the men's room, popping a few more mini Altoids, and telling me that Jeff is on a date miles away and would not be joining us. Maybe next time.
Next time? Sorry, Jeff. We'll just have to go one being strangers.
There is a time in a good first date when you know. When the conversation has become easy and you start to feel all warm and gooey inside and you want to be alone with the other person. Want to hold his or her hand. Want to feel that arm around your shoulder. And you want to leave wherever you are so you can be free to do that.
I had no such experience with Casey. And in fact was a little panic stricken that dinner was coming to an end and there were hours left in the evening.
His son texted him. He flipped open his phone. I secretly crossed my fingers hoping that someone was experiencing some kind of heinous life threatening (or at least disfiguring)emergency and he had to rush home to head off a tragedy in the making.
No such luck. It was just a baseball game update. Our team was in the heat of playoff battle.
There is nothing more unsexy than a sporting event, and Casey and I are both fans, so I used the double edged sword to try to direct the rest of the date in a way I could stand.
"Do you want to watch the rest of the game somewhere? If we hurry we can catch the last 2 or 3 innings."
Casey makes some inane comment about how many oversized TVs he has...his daughter always gets "stuck watching Hannah Montana on the little one" which is 72 inches. Like I care. My TV as I've said, is little more than something else to dust.
Concerned that he thought I was suggesting that we watch it in my living room, which I was not, I suggest a local pub.
And then to throw a little more water on the idea, I suggest that his brother might want to meet us there.
"Geez, I haven't seen Jeff in a dog's life! I can't believe he's lived right here all this time and
I haven't bumped into him. Give him a call! See if he can join us!"
I could not read Casey's genuine reaction to that suggestion, but he agreed to it on the surface. Excused himself to use the men's room, call his kids and call Jeff. He emerged from the men's room, popping a few more mini Altoids, and telling me that Jeff is on a date miles away and would not be joining us. Maybe next time.
Next time? Sorry, Jeff. We'll just have to go one being strangers.
Friday, December 3, 2010
All I Have Is A Photograph
It was odd that we could not find anything interesting to talk about. Not that I wanted to discuss politics or other landmine topics. But it was just boring.
We talked about sports. This quarterback's stats, or that baseball team's wild card chances.
We talked about our families. His mother being the size of a mobile home. His sister being an Earth Mother. His brother's odd OCD habits about what things go in which pockets of his pants.
We talked about our kids. What activities they are involved in and how they have handled our respective divorces.
Casey kept trying to hold my hand. I kept finding things I needed the hand to do and kept moving it. Pour the wine. Gesture to the waiter for something. Adjust my silverware.
I kept all of my chat completely impersonal. Not much detail, nothing I wouldn't discuss with a stranger on the subway. I did not want to give the illusion of actually connecting with Casey on any level, which is strange for me because connecting is something I do effortlessly.
Casey of course held up his end of the conversation in his usual overly emphatic syllables. "THIS IS A NICE PLACE! DO YOU BRING ALL THE GUYS HERE? Heh, heh." (No asswipe, just the ones I think I might ditch by sneaking through the kitchen and out the back door just to avoid spending one more minute with!)
And then he creeped me out. He is not on Facebook but he used his 12 year old daughter's account to look at my profile, which thankfully is set to the most private security settings. But he wanted to look at my picture. He admitted having done this.
And he commented that he showed my profile picture to his 2 sons and daughter (yuck) and his daughter had remarked "Daddy, are you going on a date with Sandra Bullock?"
Come on! I am not under any illusion that I even remotely resemble Sandra B on the best of days. Not even a little bit. OK, we both have dark hair. And that is where the similarities begin and end.
And so perhaps from a more appealing man this may have been a cute way to compliment me, but coming from the guy whose breath smelled oddly like a rotting carcass, I was completely wigged out.
Maybe someday I will understand why. For now, I just need to understand how I am going to survive the rest of the date.
We talked about sports. This quarterback's stats, or that baseball team's wild card chances.
We talked about our families. His mother being the size of a mobile home. His sister being an Earth Mother. His brother's odd OCD habits about what things go in which pockets of his pants.
We talked about our kids. What activities they are involved in and how they have handled our respective divorces.
Casey kept trying to hold my hand. I kept finding things I needed the hand to do and kept moving it. Pour the wine. Gesture to the waiter for something. Adjust my silverware.
I kept all of my chat completely impersonal. Not much detail, nothing I wouldn't discuss with a stranger on the subway. I did not want to give the illusion of actually connecting with Casey on any level, which is strange for me because connecting is something I do effortlessly.
Casey of course held up his end of the conversation in his usual overly emphatic syllables. "THIS IS A NICE PLACE! DO YOU BRING ALL THE GUYS HERE? Heh, heh." (No asswipe, just the ones I think I might ditch by sneaking through the kitchen and out the back door just to avoid spending one more minute with!)
And then he creeped me out. He is not on Facebook but he used his 12 year old daughter's account to look at my profile, which thankfully is set to the most private security settings. But he wanted to look at my picture. He admitted having done this.
And he commented that he showed my profile picture to his 2 sons and daughter (yuck) and his daughter had remarked "Daddy, are you going on a date with Sandra Bullock?"
Come on! I am not under any illusion that I even remotely resemble Sandra B on the best of days. Not even a little bit. OK, we both have dark hair. And that is where the similarities begin and end.
And so perhaps from a more appealing man this may have been a cute way to compliment me, but coming from the guy whose breath smelled oddly like a rotting carcass, I was completely wigged out.
Maybe someday I will understand why. For now, I just need to understand how I am going to survive the rest of the date.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Oh Waiter! A Little Hemlock, Please!
It is a beautiful night. I desperately wished I did not have plans. It had rained just hard enough to make the night cool, but early enough that the late afternoon sun dried the air and it was crisp. It smelled like fresh grass, which was a nice change since Casey had Napalmed my house.
We walked along the sidewalk making conversation about this and that, and came to a point where we had to walk along side a tall hedge that encroached the sidewalk and was still wet with rain. At this point, we had to walk single file.
And since that arrangement made actual conversation less than optimal, Casey decided to simply make comments.
Remarkably, comments that went something like "Geez, the view is great from back here!" And "We can walk like this the whole way, I don't mind, heh heh."
Now, I did not get to be 40 some odd years old without figuring out my best features. I know I have a nice butt. But what kind of guy makes that kind of teenage dipshit comment on a first date? He couldn't just privately think "Lucky me!" ?????? He had to say it? As if that were going to be flattering to me? Really?
Without breaking stride, I spun around to give him a look that he obviously misunderstood to be less threatening than I'd intended. I could not believe I wasted this great outfit on this clown.
We got to the restaurant without me shoving him into traffic. I ascended the stairs first as would be customary, and he made another crack about my fanny, no pun intended. Thank God it would soon be concealed on the surface of a chair.
And to be honest, friends, the rest of this may not be fair to write. Because being who I am, once I found one thing to pick apart, I could easily find a thousand others. Casey had no shot. There was nothing he could have done to redeem himself. I was glad I paid for the wine. It made me feel less bad for accepting dinner.
Dinner which seemed to last decades. Thank God for the wine.
The waiter came and lit the candles on our table. Casey smiled. I cringed.
The wine was opened and poured. The waiter thankfully placed the ice bucket between us. A little gift from God that it was within reach.
It was time to order. I ordered salmon. Casey ordered filet mignon. And when the waiter asked how he'd like it done, he replied "Medium well."
I know I visibly winced. Even the waiter thought he was hearing things. He asked for clarification.
Casey said, "Medium well. Very little pink." I closed my eyes and grimaced in anticipation that he'd follow that description with a request for ketchup.
He didn't, but I still had to concentrate on suppressing a fight or flight impulse to go running from the building as though it were on fire.
We walked along the sidewalk making conversation about this and that, and came to a point where we had to walk along side a tall hedge that encroached the sidewalk and was still wet with rain. At this point, we had to walk single file.
And since that arrangement made actual conversation less than optimal, Casey decided to simply make comments.
Remarkably, comments that went something like "Geez, the view is great from back here!" And "We can walk like this the whole way, I don't mind, heh heh."
Now, I did not get to be 40 some odd years old without figuring out my best features. I know I have a nice butt. But what kind of guy makes that kind of teenage dipshit comment on a first date? He couldn't just privately think "Lucky me!" ?????? He had to say it? As if that were going to be flattering to me? Really?
Without breaking stride, I spun around to give him a look that he obviously misunderstood to be less threatening than I'd intended. I could not believe I wasted this great outfit on this clown.
We got to the restaurant without me shoving him into traffic. I ascended the stairs first as would be customary, and he made another crack about my fanny, no pun intended. Thank God it would soon be concealed on the surface of a chair.
And to be honest, friends, the rest of this may not be fair to write. Because being who I am, once I found one thing to pick apart, I could easily find a thousand others. Casey had no shot. There was nothing he could have done to redeem himself. I was glad I paid for the wine. It made me feel less bad for accepting dinner.
Dinner which seemed to last decades. Thank God for the wine.
The waiter came and lit the candles on our table. Casey smiled. I cringed.
The wine was opened and poured. The waiter thankfully placed the ice bucket between us. A little gift from God that it was within reach.
It was time to order. I ordered salmon. Casey ordered filet mignon. And when the waiter asked how he'd like it done, he replied "Medium well."
I know I visibly winced. Even the waiter thought he was hearing things. He asked for clarification.
Casey said, "Medium well. Very little pink." I closed my eyes and grimaced in anticipation that he'd follow that description with a request for ketchup.
He didn't, but I still had to concentrate on suppressing a fight or flight impulse to go running from the building as though it were on fire.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Holy Halitosis, Batman!
I think it might have actually been better if he had shown up with a boogey in his nose.
I would have been equally skeeved out, but at least there would have been hope. I could have told him he needed a tissue, handed him a box of them and left the room while he chased the bats from the cave. Not a great first date image, for sure, but it certainly beats the hell right out of pervasive permeating caustic fumes.
When my counter attack glass of wine was finished I suggested we leave (and enjoy the added benefit that a walk in the fresh air would be!). I took the glasses into the kitchen and Casey made some stupid joke.
He had opened a tin of Altoids. Little mini ones. Whatever the flavor (hard to tell with all the competing odors…) they are blue. He made some crack about little blue pills.
Not in the mood for jokes as I gasped for breathable air, I looked at him quizzically (probably menacingly, but it was intended to be a quizzical look). He said, “Little blue pills? Viagra?”
Yeah, Casey is a laugh riot. What would I know about Viagra, dumb ass?
So I replied, flatly, that I don’t know the first thing about Viagra. He laughed and repeated my statement as though it were the most hilarious thing he’d heard all day.
Casey really needs to start keeping more interesting company.
Then he took a couple little blue Altoids and put them in his mouth. He offered me some, which I declined, and refrained from suggesting that he gargle with Agent Orange. And hey, Death Breath! Try the full sized Altoids! Hell, buy the Jumbos! I am ready to affix a gas mask to my face.
I got my purse, checked to see that my phone and some getaway money were in a convenient location and we stepped outside to go to the restaurant.
I was not at all happy to be going, but felt like a drowning person who had just broken the surface.
I would have been equally skeeved out, but at least there would have been hope. I could have told him he needed a tissue, handed him a box of them and left the room while he chased the bats from the cave. Not a great first date image, for sure, but it certainly beats the hell right out of pervasive permeating caustic fumes.
When my counter attack glass of wine was finished I suggested we leave (and enjoy the added benefit that a walk in the fresh air would be!). I took the glasses into the kitchen and Casey made some stupid joke.
He had opened a tin of Altoids. Little mini ones. Whatever the flavor (hard to tell with all the competing odors…) they are blue. He made some crack about little blue pills.
Not in the mood for jokes as I gasped for breathable air, I looked at him quizzically (probably menacingly, but it was intended to be a quizzical look). He said, “Little blue pills? Viagra?”
Yeah, Casey is a laugh riot. What would I know about Viagra, dumb ass?
So I replied, flatly, that I don’t know the first thing about Viagra. He laughed and repeated my statement as though it were the most hilarious thing he’d heard all day.
Casey really needs to start keeping more interesting company.
Then he took a couple little blue Altoids and put them in his mouth. He offered me some, which I declined, and refrained from suggesting that he gargle with Agent Orange. And hey, Death Breath! Try the full sized Altoids! Hell, buy the Jumbos! I am ready to affix a gas mask to my face.
I got my purse, checked to see that my phone and some getaway money were in a convenient location and we stepped outside to go to the restaurant.
I was not at all happy to be going, but felt like a drowning person who had just broken the surface.
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