For the very first time, Elvis, my greyhound has jumped on my bed. And I’m delighted, because unlike those owners who are always trying to push their hairy, stinky dogs off their beds and sofas, I wish my dog would lie alongside me. I’d love to stroke his velvety ears or lumpy head while dozing off or watching TV.
But no sooner is he on the bed than he lifts his leg and – what the hey - pees on my brand new duvet! He’s never peed inside the house before! I yank him off the bed, drag him down the stairs, and as I push him outside, I notice that my backyard looks different. Patio furniture has been rearranged, potted plants have been moved, and a dormant water fountain is not just running, but overflowing and flooding the patio; even my wind chimes are hanging from different locations. Huh?
Then I'm distracted by an odd sound in front of the house. So I return inside and open the front door, where I startle a shifty-looking man with a cable in his hand. Nearby, three other men are waiting for him. When I ask what they’re up to, he confesses they’re running a cable underneath my home so they can hack into my DSL and hijack my DirecTV. Then his friends push their way into my home.
In a panic, I grab my cell to dial the police. But apparently, my stupid cell is on the fritz because it keeps flashing hieroglyphics and lightening bolt-symbols on the display screen. So I use my landline to dial the operator and tell her it’s an emergency and to connect me with the police immediately. And she does so.
In San Diego.
I don’t friggin’ live in San Diego, I scream into the phone! I need the local police! And I keep trying to redial, but it’s useless because now my landline has locked up too. Meanwhile, strangers are multiplying as they invade my yard and crawl throughout every room in my home; some even sit at my kitchen table, helping themselves to a cup of coffee.
My heart is pounding so loudly and wildly, it feels like a jackhammer is about to rip right through my chest: I need the police! I need Jack Bauer! I need help and I’m gasping and panicking and can’t breathe and…
I wake up.
Elvis is snoring on the floor alongside my bed. In the golden haze of early morning sunshine, all is peaceful and quiet. Except for an odd sound: the pulsating, reverberating beat of Ricky Ricardo pounding out Babalu on his conga drums.
Oh. Wait. That’s my heart.
I try to go back to sleep, but that's pretty much a lost cause, what with Ricky in my chest and all. So I go downstairs to enjoy a soy latte and appreciate the serenity of my beautifully empty home.
And all is right and good with the world. For now.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A Day in the Life of Chaos
It's been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight.
Work is always chaotic, but lately, things have kicked up a notch and I’m trying to keep my head above water, really I am. But with every breath I take, it seems I gulp a bit of water and sink a bit deeper and I’m starting to make sloppy mistakes. Little ones sure, but I swear, it’s the little ones, like dropped commas, that haunt me the most. As a marketing writer, of course they would. That’s like a surgeon leaving a sponge inside a patient, or an accountant who subtracts six from ten and gets three. But my brain is on overload and hey, it’s not a very big brain to begin with. Hear that sizzle? That's my brain. Fried.
And then I come home and pick up my mail. Every day there are reminders, so many reminders. From Kaiser: time for your annual mammogram! Time for your annual GYN! Hey, now that you’ve hit the half-a-century mark, you get to enjoy your very first colonocsopy—it’s time for that, too!
And letters from my Home Owners Association aka the Gestapo: Guess what you lucky homeowner: you are being assessed almost $1,000 because our building construction plan ran over budget and total blowhards that we are, we just took it upon ourselves to spend money we didn’t have rather than budget for it accordingly. So now each of you, the schmucks who voted us into office, owes us $1,000. Payable immediately, thank you very much.
And from Charles Schwab: remember that $140,000 you socked away for your retirement? Well, it’s now worth $62.58 and you get to retire, well, never. Sorry ‘bout that. Thank you for your business.
Work is always chaotic, but lately, things have kicked up a notch and I’m trying to keep my head above water, really I am. But with every breath I take, it seems I gulp a bit of water and sink a bit deeper and I’m starting to make sloppy mistakes. Little ones sure, but I swear, it’s the little ones, like dropped commas, that haunt me the most. As a marketing writer, of course they would. That’s like a surgeon leaving a sponge inside a patient, or an accountant who subtracts six from ten and gets three. But my brain is on overload and hey, it’s not a very big brain to begin with. Hear that sizzle? That's my brain. Fried.
And then I come home and pick up my mail. Every day there are reminders, so many reminders. From Kaiser: time for your annual mammogram! Time for your annual GYN! Hey, now that you’ve hit the half-a-century mark, you get to enjoy your very first colonocsopy—it’s time for that, too!
And letters from my Home Owners Association aka the Gestapo: Guess what you lucky homeowner: you are being assessed almost $1,000 because our building construction plan ran over budget and total blowhards that we are, we just took it upon ourselves to spend money we didn’t have rather than budget for it accordingly. So now each of you, the schmucks who voted us into office, owes us $1,000. Payable immediately, thank you very much.
And from Charles Schwab: remember that $140,000 you socked away for your retirement? Well, it’s now worth $62.58 and you get to retire, well, never. Sorry ‘bout that. Thank you for your business.
And my iPod died.
And did I mention my mom took a spill? Her naughty greyhound, Lucy, caught sight of a kitty and tried taking after it. But Lucy forgot that Mom was on the other end of the leash and said leash twisted around Mom’s ankles and knocked her to the ground. Pavement, of course. Nothing broke, thank God, but when you’re 72 years old, getting slapped in the face with concrete is no minor ordeal. Knees and elbows are stiff and swollen. Ribs are sore. Every step hurts. Crutches are needed. So now I’m running double-duty, driving the 20 miles round trip to walk Mom’s dogs, do her grocery shopping, run errands, prepare meals. Of which I’m more than pleased to do- I adore my mom. I just wish there were more hours in the day.
And in the meantime, the lower half of my face is still completely numb from the maxillofacial surgery I had seven months ago. My surgeon, Dr. Hottie, warned that nerve regeneration could take up to TWO years and so, I’m trying to keep the faith, and – ha – keep a stiff upper lip. But I’m not sure that anyone can truly understand how challenging it is to have a face that is completely, totally dead from the nose down. Friends swear they don’t notice any change in my speech and facial expressions and this comforts me because my face FEELS paralyzed. If you’ve ever had novacaine for a dental procedure and remember how discombobulated and weird and frozen your face felt, well, that’s mine, only ten times worse. For seven friggin’ months. Dead.
So having said all this, is it any wonder that last night I succumbed and hit the sauce? Yes, that’s right. I know it’s unhealthy and addictive and fattening, but I needed to drown my sorrows, so yes, I turned to the sauce.
Hot fudge, that is. And not the organic Chocolate Moo from Trader Joe that I enjoy sparingly once a week, but walloping servings of the ooey-gooey-million-calorie-per-teaspoon-clog-those-arteries-died-and-gone-to-heaven hot fudge. Poured in tsunami waves over two wading pool servings of mouth watering mint-chocolate chip ice cream. Oh, it was good. Evil. Delicious. Medicinal.
Because hey: a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And did I mention that its been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight?
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Not-So-Fast and the Furious
There I was at the end of a long workday; sitting in my Toyota Rav4, crawling five miles per hour in that bottleneck stretch of freeway voted the sixth worst commute in the Bay Area, the infamous Highway 92 eastbound. But bad as it is, accidents are rare because traffic moves so slowly, there is usually plenty of time to react and prevent a fender bender.
Unless, that is, you happen to be the woman who was too busy yapping on her cell phone to notice that traffic had come to a dead halt; subsequently, she tapped the back fender of the car in front of her. Not hard, mind you. But enough to trigger her air bag,which exploded in her surprised face and imbedded her cell phone as a permanent earpiece.
So I gave a few frantic taps on my horn. Not a loud, rude, “YouAreSuchAnIdiot” foghorn kind of blast, but a “Hey hey hey, you’re about to cause us both a pain in the neck” type of warning. Said driver heeded the horn and moved back into his lane.
Crisis averted. Or so I thought.
Because just seconds later I pulled up alongside the driver, prepared to give a little "no hard feelings" wave, and was greeted with an unexpected sight: a sweet-looking, professionally-dressed young woman, sticking her head out the window and shooting bullets with her eyes while flipping me the bird with both hands. My passenger window was rolled up so I was spared her screaming words. However, if my lip-reading skills are as good as I think they are, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wishing me “luck.”
What the hey? She performed a careless maneuver, she almost hit me and I’m the bad guy here? And I was reminded of an article I read that mourned the death of driver’s training as part of the high school curriculum. Most schools discontinued the program in the mid-eighties due to budget cutbacks. As a result, drivers are now getting their version of driver’s ed through games like Grand Theft Auto and movies like The Fast and the Furious. Sure, they're learning the logistics of operating a car, but is anyone teaching the importance of simple courtesies, like turn signals, hand waves, and the zipper method for merging? 900-pound vehicals are being propelled by hot-headed Road Warriors and it’s every man for himself.
And, so it seems, every woman. Even sweet-looking, professional ones.
Unless, that is, you happen to be the woman who was too busy yapping on her cell phone to notice that traffic had come to a dead halt; subsequently, she tapped the back fender of the car in front of her. Not hard, mind you. But enough to trigger her air bag,which exploded in her surprised face and imbedded her cell phone as a permanent earpiece.
I confess, it made me snort. Oh c’mon, who doesn’t like to see an inattentive driver get their comeuppance?
And that was me, trying to be attentive when I noticed a black Ford SUV to my right, slightly ahead, sloooowly drifting into my lane. Maybe I was in the driver’s blind spot. Maybe the driver hadn’t looked over his shoulder, maybe he hadn’t notice there wasn’t space to squeeze his behemoth vehicle into or hey, maybe he had just been discharged from a nearby clinic and was still under heavy sedation from his ice pick lobotomy.
So I gave a few frantic taps on my horn. Not a loud, rude, “YouAreSuchAnIdiot” foghorn kind of blast, but a “Hey hey hey, you’re about to cause us both a pain in the neck” type of warning. Said driver heeded the horn and moved back into his lane.
Crisis averted. Or so I thought.
Because just seconds later I pulled up alongside the driver, prepared to give a little "no hard feelings" wave, and was greeted with an unexpected sight: a sweet-looking, professionally-dressed young woman, sticking her head out the window and shooting bullets with her eyes while flipping me the bird with both hands. My passenger window was rolled up so I was spared her screaming words. However, if my lip-reading skills are as good as I think they are, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wishing me “luck.”
What the hey? She performed a careless maneuver, she almost hit me and I’m the bad guy here? And I was reminded of an article I read that mourned the death of driver’s training as part of the high school curriculum. Most schools discontinued the program in the mid-eighties due to budget cutbacks. As a result, drivers are now getting their version of driver’s ed through games like Grand Theft Auto and movies like The Fast and the Furious. Sure, they're learning the logistics of operating a car, but is anyone teaching the importance of simple courtesies, like turn signals, hand waves, and the zipper method for merging? 900-pound vehicals are being propelled by hot-headed Road Warriors and it’s every man for himself.
And, so it seems, every woman. Even sweet-looking, professional ones.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Karaoke, Scary-oke
There might be just one person in the world who sings worse than my sister, Jennifer, and that would be me. Although it could be a toss-up, since we’re both painfully tone deaf. And equally unfortunate since we both love music. But her husband loves to sing and he’s good, which is why we found ourselves frequenting Karaoke nights on our recent family cruise to Alaska.
There we sat in the Jammers lounge, paying $7.50 for watered-down drinks and kicking back to talented versions of “Friends in Low Places” and “Dream On,” alongside skin-crawling renditions of “Love Shack” and “You Light Up My Life.” Trapped at sea with fellow passengers plied with alcohol and giddy with freedom: prime conditions for offering Karaoke at its best and worst.
And after three chocolate martinies, I was ready to contribute to the worst.
“Let’s sing,” I whispered to Jennifer. She couldn’t have looked more aghast if I had belched “God Save the Queen” in front of her Majesty herself.
“No way!” she emphatically proclaimed. But I noticed that, like me, she was on her third drink and therefore might be persuaded with the right song. And I knew just the song. I moved in for the kill.
“We can do it!” I pleaded. “We’ll sing ‘Henry the Eighth’! It’s a short song and we know all the words.”
How could we not? The 1910 drinking song, made popular in 1965 by the British band, Herman’s Hermits, was one of our childhood favorites and featured just nine short lines. Sung with a Cockney accent, could any song be simpler? Or more fun?
I'm Henery the Eighth, I am!
There we sat in the Jammers lounge, paying $7.50 for watered-down drinks and kicking back to talented versions of “Friends in Low Places” and “Dream On,” alongside skin-crawling renditions of “Love Shack” and “You Light Up My Life.” Trapped at sea with fellow passengers plied with alcohol and giddy with freedom: prime conditions for offering Karaoke at its best and worst.
And after three chocolate martinies, I was ready to contribute to the worst.
“Let’s sing,” I whispered to Jennifer. She couldn’t have looked more aghast if I had belched “God Save the Queen” in front of her Majesty herself.
“No way!” she emphatically proclaimed. But I noticed that, like me, she was on her third drink and therefore might be persuaded with the right song. And I knew just the song. I moved in for the kill.
“We can do it!” I pleaded. “We’ll sing ‘Henry the Eighth’! It’s a short song and we know all the words.”
How could we not? The 1910 drinking song, made popular in 1965 by the British band, Herman’s Hermits, was one of our childhood favorites and featured just nine short lines. Sung with a Cockney accent, could any song be simpler? Or more fun?
I'm Henery the Eighth, I am!
Henery the Eighth I am! I am!
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married seven times before.
And every one was an Henery (HENERY!)
She wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam (OR A SAM!)
I'm her eighth old man named Henery
Henery the Eighth I am.
Second verse, same as the first!
Ah, there it was. I KNEW that look. Her resolve was weakening, but still she tried resisting. “It probably isn’t offered on the playlist,” she argued. That was all I needed. I raced to the program guide located next to the bar (coincidence? I think not) and scanned the pages. I returned to our table, triumphant. “We’re signed up!” I informed her. But then it was my turn to panic. “Oh no! I only know the first verse.”
Jennifer gave me this look that said, “You are such an idiot!" She reminded me of the song’s last line: “Second verse same as the first!”
Oh yeah. And then our names were called. And we would have been fine.
For it IS a simple song and hamming it up with Cockney accents, we were clearly having fun. Well, maybe too much fun. Because just a couple lines into the song, we broke into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. And anyone who knows and loves my sister knows one dreaded, horrible fact.
When Jennifer laughs, she pees. And audience or not, this was no exception. She started to keel over and cross her legs and oh my gawd, Houston, we have a problem.
“I’VE GOT TO PEE!” she gasped through a flurry of giggles, forgetting that a mike was at her mouth. With one hand I yanked the mike to prevent any future shipboard announcements and with the other, held tight to her arm as she tried to exit the stage.
“Oh no you don’t, sister!” I gasped back in-between “Henery’s,” laughing so hard I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t wet my own drawers. “You’re not leaving me here alone!”
And remain she did. Not that she had much choice, given my iron-clad grip on her arm. We managed to finish the song to a thunderous ear-bursting round of applause, although I suspect the adulations might have had more to do with our impromptu side show. And yes indeedy, Jennifer did pee her pants. I can reveal this only because I would have done the same if not for my obviously fused-at-the-knees stance onstage. If it was obvious that the Mitchell sisters can’t sing, it’s now been made equally apparent that we also have weak bladders.
And know how to make our mark. Certainly in more ways than one.
Happy birthday, sis!
Jennifer gave me this look that said, “You are such an idiot!" She reminded me of the song’s last line: “Second verse same as the first!”
Oh yeah. And then our names were called. And we would have been fine.
For it IS a simple song and hamming it up with Cockney accents, we were clearly having fun. Well, maybe too much fun. Because just a couple lines into the song, we broke into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. And anyone who knows and loves my sister knows one dreaded, horrible fact.
When Jennifer laughs, she pees. And audience or not, this was no exception. She started to keel over and cross her legs and oh my gawd, Houston, we have a problem.
“I’VE GOT TO PEE!” she gasped through a flurry of giggles, forgetting that a mike was at her mouth. With one hand I yanked the mike to prevent any future shipboard announcements and with the other, held tight to her arm as she tried to exit the stage.
“Oh no you don’t, sister!” I gasped back in-between “Henery’s,” laughing so hard I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t wet my own drawers. “You’re not leaving me here alone!”
And remain she did. Not that she had much choice, given my iron-clad grip on her arm. We managed to finish the song to a thunderous ear-bursting round of applause, although I suspect the adulations might have had more to do with our impromptu side show. And yes indeedy, Jennifer did pee her pants. I can reveal this only because I would have done the same if not for my obviously fused-at-the-knees stance onstage. If it was obvious that the Mitchell sisters can’t sing, it’s now been made equally apparent that we also have weak bladders.
And know how to make our mark. Certainly in more ways than one.
Happy birthday, sis!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Not Ready to be the Mama of Obama
Okay, I’m about to reveal my issue with Barack Obama.
It’s not because he won the Democratic nomination over my preferred candidate, Hillary Clinton and it’s not because he is African-American (puh-leeeze). It’s not because he likes some rap (hey, I’ve been known to get jiggy wit it), or because some have accused him of straddling the fence over Israeli/Palestine relations. Unfounded, I think. It has nothing to do with his supposed “lack” of experience, nor do I care about his one-time refusal to wear a flag pin. Big whoop. And finally, my concern doesn’t stem from his long-term affiliation with a whack-job pastor, although, I confess, that one did make me raise an eyebrow.
No, my bugaboo with Barack is far more serious. And worse, not only is his transgression unforgivable, but it is absolutely irrevocable. However attractive his other attributes, and there are many, I’ll admit, there’s not a thing our newly minted Democratic nominee can do to change this one fatal flaw.
The man is younger than me.
Bear in mind, just a little. A scant three years, seven months, which translates into 1,305 days or 31,479 hours (31,503 hours in a Leap Year) according to the Gregorian calendar, defined as the average interval between vernal equinoxes equaling 365 days, 5 hours, 49 minutes (365.2424 Universal days) per year, or a mere 1,890409.7 minutes per the current official definition of the second, which is the time it takes for 9,192,631 770 oscillations of the Cesium atom at zero magnetic field, based upon our 43-month age difference.
Not that I’ve given this much thought, mind you.
But hey, you have to appreciate my concern. My entire life, world leaders have always been wrinkly old crones sporting bow ties, support hose and shellacked hair. Even the handsome and charismatic John F. Kennedy looked like the Crypt Keeper to my five-year old eyes.
Now, suddenly, we have a presidential nominee who is younger than me. This is a milestone moment, folks, and not one that I can easily ignore. When police began looking like extras from Disney’s High School Musical, I was fine. When doctors started resembling Doogie Howser, M.D., I l could look the other way. It was tough enough getting slammed with my first “ma’am,” or finding my childhood Chatty Cathy and Little Kiddle dolls for sale at antique fairs.
But when our future Commander in Chief is too young to know the words to the theme song from The Banana Splits Adventure Hour? I’m sorry, that’s where I may have to draw the line. Barack Obama could turn water into Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine -- not that such a young ‘un would know what this is -- and he still couldn’t compensate for his one unforgivable offense:
Making me feel old.
However, there is one way our youthful Senator might make amends. Are you listening, Barack? I’m going to tell you how to reach out to people like me, who are still trying to adjust to that ultimate f-bomb (turning fifty). Okay, so maybe you can’t join your older constituents in a rousing rendition of The Monkee's “Last Train to Clarksville,” but I’m thinking a complimentary shot of Botox at the poll booth could help bring about a change we all believe in: cosmetic, maybe, but what the heck.
I’d give the kid my vote.
It’s not because he won the Democratic nomination over my preferred candidate, Hillary Clinton and it’s not because he is African-American (puh-leeeze). It’s not because he likes some rap (hey, I’ve been known to get jiggy wit it), or because some have accused him of straddling the fence over Israeli/Palestine relations. Unfounded, I think. It has nothing to do with his supposed “lack” of experience, nor do I care about his one-time refusal to wear a flag pin. Big whoop. And finally, my concern doesn’t stem from his long-term affiliation with a whack-job pastor, although, I confess, that one did make me raise an eyebrow.
No, my bugaboo with Barack is far more serious. And worse, not only is his transgression unforgivable, but it is absolutely irrevocable. However attractive his other attributes, and there are many, I’ll admit, there’s not a thing our newly minted Democratic nominee can do to change this one fatal flaw.
The man is younger than me.
Bear in mind, just a little. A scant three years, seven months, which translates into 1,305 days or 31,479 hours (31,503 hours in a Leap Year) according to the Gregorian calendar, defined as the average interval between vernal equinoxes equaling 365 days, 5 hours, 49 minutes (365.2424 Universal days) per year, or a mere 1,890409.7 minutes per the current official definition of the second, which is the time it takes for 9,192,631 770 oscillations of the Cesium atom at zero magnetic field, based upon our 43-month age difference.
Not that I’ve given this much thought, mind you.
But hey, you have to appreciate my concern. My entire life, world leaders have always been wrinkly old crones sporting bow ties, support hose and shellacked hair. Even the handsome and charismatic John F. Kennedy looked like the Crypt Keeper to my five-year old eyes.
Now, suddenly, we have a presidential nominee who is younger than me. This is a milestone moment, folks, and not one that I can easily ignore. When police began looking like extras from Disney’s High School Musical, I was fine. When doctors started resembling Doogie Howser, M.D., I l could look the other way. It was tough enough getting slammed with my first “ma’am,” or finding my childhood Chatty Cathy and Little Kiddle dolls for sale at antique fairs.
But when our future Commander in Chief is too young to know the words to the theme song from The Banana Splits Adventure Hour? I’m sorry, that’s where I may have to draw the line. Barack Obama could turn water into Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine -- not that such a young ‘un would know what this is -- and he still couldn’t compensate for his one unforgivable offense:
Making me feel old.
However, there is one way our youthful Senator might make amends. Are you listening, Barack? I’m going to tell you how to reach out to people like me, who are still trying to adjust to that ultimate f-bomb (turning fifty). Okay, so maybe you can’t join your older constituents in a rousing rendition of The Monkee's “Last Train to Clarksville,” but I’m thinking a complimentary shot of Botox at the poll booth could help bring about a change we all believe in: cosmetic, maybe, but what the heck.
I’d give the kid my vote.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Recommended Beachwear: a Burqa
If this place wasn’t heaven, then it had to be a close runner-up. Here we were at Villa Del Palmar Flamingos, a luxurious 5-star resort in Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, an up-and-coming beachside community about 10 miles north of Puerto Vallarta. I was vacationing with my best friend of 30 years, Pam. She had generously insisted on treating me with this fabulous trip to commemorate my “zero” birthday.
“Hey, I don’t have a husband to indulge or kids to send to college,” she reasoned. “I make good money, so if I want to spoil my friends, let me!”
And who was I to argue?
From swimming and shopping to excursions and dining, each new day seemed better than the last. And today we were experiencing the ultimate in decadence: sunning ourselves on a gorgeous beach straight from the cover of a travel brochure. Pristine sand sparkled like sugar. Palm trees danced in the soft tropic breeze. The sky was a stunning Peacock blue, the temperature a balmy 80-degrees, and the only sound was the gentle crashing of waves. That, and the voice of our waiter asking, “Another margarita, senorita?”
Did life get any better than this?
I was nestled under a huge beach umbrella, propped up in a comfy chaise lounge. To my left was a stack of magazines and to my right, a margarita glass the size of a child’s wading pool. My feet were buried in the sand, my legs covered with a towel, my head tucked inside a baseball cap, and my eyes shielded with Jackie-O sunglasses. For double sun insurance, I had lathered myself from top to bottom in SPF 75.
“You look like a beekeeper in a burqa,” Pam snorted as she eyeballed my attire. She was sprawled outside the zip code of my massive umbrella, exposing as much skin as a modest person is capable of exposing. When I asked about sun block, she waved me off like a bothersome sand flea. “I’m wearing SPF 15,” she mumbled as she rolled over on her stomach. “Besides, I’m half Mexican. I don’t burn. I tan.” And then she fell asleep.
Alrighty, then.
Now, if we freeze-frame this moment, we can see why it serves as a prime example of why God never saw me fit to have children. No doubt, the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, foresaw numerous scenarios in which my precious little snookums would say something like, “but Mumsy, I want to run with scissors!” and I’d respond with, “Okay sweetie, but it’s dark outside, so be sure to look both ways before you cross the freeway.”
Because this is where I failed Friendship 101. In hindsight, I should have screamed, “SPF 15? Girlfriend, are you CRAZY? Why don’t you just soak your virgin skin in a nice soy sauce and honey marinade, and then barbecue your bodacious bod over a George Foreman Grill?”
But I didn’t. Instead, I gave her a nonchalant, “Okay, doke” shrug and promptly buried my SPF 75 slathered snout into the latest issue of “More” magazine. And for the next five hours, the only time I moved was to wave my hand for a margarita refill, reach for another magazine, or adjust my chair to avoid the shifting sun. It was, indeed, a perfect day.
Not so much for Pam.
That evening, when I observed that she may have overdone the sunbathing, she brushed off my concerns. Nah,” she said with just the slightest grimace. “I always burn a little at first and then it turns into a nice tan.”
But when she emerged from her bedroom the next morning, I wasn’t looking at a “nice tan.” I wasn’t even sure I was looking at Pam. She walked as if she’d been spray-starched. All I could see were the whites of her eyes and, when she opened her mouth to groan, her white teeth. Her skin, a fiery fire engine red, was radiating heat so fiercely that I swear, it kicked on the air conditioner.
“Does this mean we’re canceling our massages today,” I asked?
My, who knew the eyes were capable of spewing such venom!
And so, alas, for my best friend, heaven took a temporary turn for the worse. Still, Nuevo Vallarta in winter is one pretty hot place to visit. And if a virgin-skinned tourist happens to be wearing a meager SPF 15, the operative word might, indeed, be “hot.”
Just ask Pam.
“Hey, I don’t have a husband to indulge or kids to send to college,” she reasoned. “I make good money, so if I want to spoil my friends, let me!”
And who was I to argue?
From swimming and shopping to excursions and dining, each new day seemed better than the last. And today we were experiencing the ultimate in decadence: sunning ourselves on a gorgeous beach straight from the cover of a travel brochure. Pristine sand sparkled like sugar. Palm trees danced in the soft tropic breeze. The sky was a stunning Peacock blue, the temperature a balmy 80-degrees, and the only sound was the gentle crashing of waves. That, and the voice of our waiter asking, “Another margarita, senorita?”
Did life get any better than this?
I was nestled under a huge beach umbrella, propped up in a comfy chaise lounge. To my left was a stack of magazines and to my right, a margarita glass the size of a child’s wading pool. My feet were buried in the sand, my legs covered with a towel, my head tucked inside a baseball cap, and my eyes shielded with Jackie-O sunglasses. For double sun insurance, I had lathered myself from top to bottom in SPF 75.
“You look like a beekeeper in a burqa,” Pam snorted as she eyeballed my attire. She was sprawled outside the zip code of my massive umbrella, exposing as much skin as a modest person is capable of exposing. When I asked about sun block, she waved me off like a bothersome sand flea. “I’m wearing SPF 15,” she mumbled as she rolled over on her stomach. “Besides, I’m half Mexican. I don’t burn. I tan.” And then she fell asleep.
Alrighty, then.
Now, if we freeze-frame this moment, we can see why it serves as a prime example of why God never saw me fit to have children. No doubt, the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, foresaw numerous scenarios in which my precious little snookums would say something like, “but Mumsy, I want to run with scissors!” and I’d respond with, “Okay sweetie, but it’s dark outside, so be sure to look both ways before you cross the freeway.”
Because this is where I failed Friendship 101. In hindsight, I should have screamed, “SPF 15? Girlfriend, are you CRAZY? Why don’t you just soak your virgin skin in a nice soy sauce and honey marinade, and then barbecue your bodacious bod over a George Foreman Grill?”
But I didn’t. Instead, I gave her a nonchalant, “Okay, doke” shrug and promptly buried my SPF 75 slathered snout into the latest issue of “More” magazine. And for the next five hours, the only time I moved was to wave my hand for a margarita refill, reach for another magazine, or adjust my chair to avoid the shifting sun. It was, indeed, a perfect day.
Not so much for Pam.
That evening, when I observed that she may have overdone the sunbathing, she brushed off my concerns. Nah,” she said with just the slightest grimace. “I always burn a little at first and then it turns into a nice tan.”
But when she emerged from her bedroom the next morning, I wasn’t looking at a “nice tan.” I wasn’t even sure I was looking at Pam. She walked as if she’d been spray-starched. All I could see were the whites of her eyes and, when she opened her mouth to groan, her white teeth. Her skin, a fiery fire engine red, was radiating heat so fiercely that I swear, it kicked on the air conditioner.
“Does this mean we’re canceling our massages today,” I asked?
My, who knew the eyes were capable of spewing such venom!
And so, alas, for my best friend, heaven took a temporary turn for the worse. Still, Nuevo Vallarta in winter is one pretty hot place to visit. And if a virgin-skinned tourist happens to be wearing a meager SPF 15, the operative word might, indeed, be “hot.”
Just ask Pam.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Inspiration in Plane View
Take my photo. I guarantee, you’ll make a few bucks when you sell it to Travel+ Leisure, maybe Conde Nast Traveler, or perhaps Arthur Frommer’s Budget Travel. I’ll pose for you, maybe even smile.
Because any travel magazine will pay handsomely for a picture of the voyager who found reason to utter seven simple words that have never before escaped the lips of any globe-trotting human being; one succinct, yet stupefying sentence destined to join the renowned ranks of other deep and insightful world views, such as, “There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.” (Robert Louis Stevenson), “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page (St. Augustine), and “Wow! Brazil is big.” (George W. Bush).
But first, in order to appreciate my momentous words, you have to understand the circumstances in which they were inspired. So sit back, Grasshopper. Prepared to be blown away.
It started with a plane ride. A mode of transportation, once considered mundane, that is now on par with other personal affronts like colonoscopies and gastric reflux. But a necessary evil that my best friend, Pam, and I had to endure if we wanted to pursue our vacation in Mexico. And so, like countless other travelers before me, when we arrived at the gate, I got on my knees, folded my hands, squeezed my eyes shut and recited the Passenger’s Prayer:
Please, dear God, Buddha, Zeus or whoever else might be on duty. Spare us crying babies, kicking rugrats in back of me, or nimrods in front who feel it their God-given right to recline their seat all the way down, even though it means my knees are imbedded in their kidneys, their head is in my lap and they’re staring straight up my nostrils. I beseech thee, no terrorists, drunks, or doctor-defying idiots who insist on traveling despite being recently diagnosed with (select the most recent episode of “House, M.D.”): a. tuberculosis, b. meningitis or c. Ebola. I pray, most Holy One, that thou wouldst see me worthy of eluding seat-hogging brethren whose claim to fame is that they once appeared on Maury Povich for no reason other than their weight exceeds that of a tractor. And my final and most fervent prayer of all: please, I beg of thee, no in-flight movies featuring Nicholas Cage. Amen.
Then, as boarding began for First Class passengers, Pam nudged me to join the line. “No,” I told her. “It’s THEM. First Class.”
“Yeah, I know,” she replied with an ear-splitting grin. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
And voila! Just like Harry Potter catching the Hogwart Express from the mythical Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station, I found myself joining THEM. Entering a magical realm that I knew existed, but had never experienced. I swear, trumpets blared and angels sang as I floated into that hallowed sanctuary known as First Class.
It was everything I ever imagined. Spacious seats that embraced me like a lover’s arms. Leg room so plentiful, I could actually cross my leg without cracking my nose with my knee. It was clean. Quiet and inviting, with a beam of sunshine gently warming each and every plush leather seat. And the flight attendants…all instant Best Friends Forever (BFF)! Would I prefer steak or chicken on my fine china plate? How about a Caesar salad and a glass of wine? When I asked about the cost for a Chardonnay, my new BFF studied my Curious George t-shirt, loopy grin and star-glazed eyes. And recognizing a First Class virgin when he saw one, he replied with a kindly smile, “Madam, trust me, if you’re sitting in First Class, you’ve already paid for the wine.”
SaWEET! But as I reveled in my luxurious surroundings, bonding with my fellow First Class peeps with a “yeah, I’m one of YOU,” simpatico-type smile, I suddenly realized that this precious flight was just three and a half hours long. Only 210 minutes in which to enjoy a world that my bank account would never again allow me to enter. Cinderella would soon leave the Ball and hereon in, future air travel would again revert to sticky floors, suspicious sulfur-like smells, and stale pretzel sticks ensconced in Kryptonite pouches.
And with this dawning awareness came forth a bubbling boil of panic that swelled in my breast and inspired the aforementioned words, thus sealing my spot in travelogue history. Seven immortal words destined to give hope and remain etched in the minds of all coach passengers who might believe, as I once did, such a concept impossible. Because in the flush of First Class passion, I cried for all the plane to hear,
“I DON'T WANT THIS FLIGHT TO END!”
Weighty words, indeed. Ripe with the potential to forever alter the perception of air travel. And words that will always be attributed to me, an aeronautic pioneer who managed to find beauty in the belly of the beast.
So go ahead, take my photo, now. Before my next coach flight wipes the smile off my face.
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