by tess
So I survived vacation and here are the facts and figures to prove it.
# miles flown round-trip - 26,200
# hours flown round-trip - 52.25
# hours spent waiting in airports - 26.75
# hours video shot by The Hubs - 2.5
# hours video during which you can hear my voice in the background telling him how to shoot video - 2.475
Ratio of island Population to # Scooters on island - 5,000,000 : 4,999,997
Crazy things transported by scooter – ladders, surf boards, propane tanks, 5-gallon water jugs, McDonald’s delivery in an enormous ice chest
# stop lights on island of 5 million people - 3 (right-of-way is determined by size and the persistence of one’s horn)
Maximum speed attained during 18 hours of driving around island - 14 mph
# ancient topless women seen from car – 2 (covering one’s breasts is a relatively recent adjustment to the Balinese and some very old women refuse the new-fangled modesty laws issued from Jakarta)
Books read – 3, including The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr, The Lake of Dead Languages by Carol Goodman, and Freakiverse by Gretchen Kriesen
Games of Rummikub, Sequence, and Gin Rummy won by The Hubs - 37,857,921
Pounds of packed (female) clothing versus pounds of packed clothing actually worn – 54.6 vs. 6
Pounds of packed (male) clothing versus pounds of packed clothing actually worn – 24 vs. 4
Mosquito bites - 5 (1 massively infected because men are incapable of leaving themselves alone)
Cases of Swimmer’s Ear - 2 (1 necessitating a forthcoming doctor’s visit)
Ratio of Hindu temple visits to Catholic mass attendance – 7 in 13 days : 1 in 25 years
Consecutive hours of Bali Belly - 4 (times two bathrooms, thankfully)
# hamburgers served including ham, poached egg, cucumber, sambal, and pounded vaguely burger-esque meat-like substance – 1
# meals served without cucumber and tomato slices – 0 (including breakfasts)
# beers consumed by 2 people in 13 days – 33 (note: that this is an all-time record for least drinking during a vacation EVER and due exclusively to how difficult alcohol is to obtain there)
# 5-gallon jugs potable water consumed by two people in two weeks via drinking and cooking – 4
# napkins encountered – 0 (nearly empty boxes of "fun-size" single-ply tissues are provided on tables, but no napkins)
Ratio (in ounces) of protein to rice served in any meal – 3:20
Monstrous sights - 5’ iguana, 4’ monitor lizard, my butt crammed into the boy shorts of a tankini
# monkeys seen fornicating in the street - 2 (at least it’s an even number, right?)
# unloved, neglected, starving dogs – 10,000,000,000
Neighbor dogs befriended – 3 (Mr. Brown Dog, Smiley Dog, Thumper Tail Dog)
# vendors carrying entire inventory on top of their heads chasing us down the street yelling “Big Size Here! Biggest Size for You!” – 172
# Bali tee shirts that will disintegrate upon the first run through the washing machine - 2
# postcards purchased – 0
# sarongs purchased – 2 (because 6 sarongs aren’t enough apparently)
# larger-than-life intricately-carved-from-teak circumcised phallus bottle openers purchased – 3
# Singapore airport x-ray scanner technicians who laughed hysterically at my embarrassment when they demanded to see (and fondle) the bottle openers in front of 90 billion tourists – 7
# husbands who suffered death-by-shooting-eyeball-glares when wife realized aforementioned phallus bottle openers had been packed in her carry-on - 1
# nights spent cowering from the heat and bugs in air conditioning behind mosquito netting – 13
# flat sheets used in bedding – 0 (just a fitted sheet and a light-weight comforter)
Movies and TV shows watched aboard Singapore Airlines: The Godfather (3 times), Rachel Getting Married, Frost-Nixon, Californication, Little Britain USA (4 times), Fawlty Towers (2 times), Beautiful People BBC (2 times), Kicks BBC (2 times), Clones BBC, Cocktail Kings BBC, Gardens of India, Killadelphia, Scrubs (2 times), Ray Ramano HBO special, Celebrity Apprentice (during which Piers kicks Omarosa to the curb), & Hell’s Kitchen (Pointedly not watched – Twilight, Australia, High School Musical 3)
# General Hospital episodes missed – 14
# hours spent watching Al Jazeera (the only English television available) – 28
Per capita GDP in Bali - $760.09 (hence the back-breaking poverty visible everywhere but the resorts)
Price owed to General if selected as a policeman – 60,000,000 rupiah (around $6,000; the job is so sought after that you have to pay to get it)
# hours spent in departing-to-the-US clothes - 43.5 (except for jogbra which enjoyed a 7 hour holiday stuffed into the airplane seat pocket during the Singapore-to-Frankfurt leg)
# times either of us thought “Can you shut the hell up for 24 seconds?” – 11,597 (per day)
# hours spent canoodling with my cats upon arrival home - 6
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Chewing under your desk
What if Tessa and I worked together in a tiny, quiet office with a unisex bathroom ten feet from our workspaces and a thin cubicle wall between us? And what if we had really boring jobs that didn't challenge us? And what if we had IM?
Thing 1: Can you hear me chewing?
Thing 2: No. Did you hear my stomach growl?
T1: No. Maybe a little.
T2: Sorry.
T1: That's OK.
T2: Let me know when your next meeting is.
T1: Why?
T2: I want to eat an apple. I cut it up, but it'll be loud, so just let me know.
T1: OK. 1:00.
T2: That was the chair.
T1: What?
T2: That noise. It was the chair.
T1: I really didn't think you farted.
T2: Good. I think I just heard Frank drop his pen. In his office. Down the hall.
T1: I think I can hear my blood flowing.
T2: I think I can hear your blood flowing.
T1: It's too quiet.
T2: Way too quiet.
T1: I'm going to die it's so quiet.
T2: I would miss you.
T1: I would miss you, too.
T2: But I would steal all the snacks in your desk.
T1: I would expect nothing less. Oh. Sorry.
T2: Dude. I heard that. What was that?
T1: I burped. I thought it was going to come out really quietly but here, in the great chasm of silence, it sounded like a volcano.
T2: I think the client on the conference call heard you.
T1: Shut up. Put your headphones on.
T2: THEY ARE. That's how loud you are.
T1: You know, you aren't so quiet yourself, missy. Could your keyboard be any louder?
T2: I ordered it especially so. Did it just to annoy you and make you less productive.
T1: Mission accomplished. It rings in my head like a thousand Barbie dolls running across the floor in their plastic high heels.
T2: What is it with you and Barbies?
T1: Dunnno. Ugh. Sounds like Earl had something bad for lunch.
T2: That's going to smell.
T1: Why doesn't he use the air spray. That's why we put it in there.
T2: It's admitting he did it.
T1: Everyone KNOWS he did it. We can all hear it. And smell it. And it sticks to him.
T2: What does?
T1: The smell. It sticks. Sometimes that happens. Like you think you've left a stink behind and it decides to follow you. Because it likes you. It's like a puppy.
T2: You have some serious issues.
T1: Is it lunch time yet?
T2: It's 9:15.
T1: So you've already eaten yours?
T2: Yes.
T1: Natch.
T2: I don't mind if you eat your apple.
T1: What if I chew really slow? Then you won't hear.
T2: Yeah. You've tried that before. Doesn't work.
T1: You heard that?
T2: It was like someone trying to open a hard candy slowly at the opera.
T1: Why do people at the theater suddenly need hard candy? I have never seen anyone eat hard candy at any other time but get into a theatre and they just have to have it, can't wait, need it need it need it.
T2: Same reason why everyone wants to laugh in church.
T1: You know
T2: We don't have time for this. I have to go collate.
T1: Can I help?
T2: We've been through this.
T1: People can change.
T2: Eat your apple; I'm leaving my desk.
And this is why we have good jobs, no IM, and work very, very far away from each other. But she does have a unisex bathroom about 10 feet from her desk. BWAHAHAHAHHAA.
Thing 1: Can you hear me chewing?
Thing 2: No. Did you hear my stomach growl?
T1: No. Maybe a little.
T2: Sorry.
T1: That's OK.
T2: Let me know when your next meeting is.
T1: Why?
T2: I want to eat an apple. I cut it up, but it'll be loud, so just let me know.
T1: OK. 1:00.
T2: That was the chair.
T1: What?
T2: That noise. It was the chair.
T1: I really didn't think you farted.
T2: Good. I think I just heard Frank drop his pen. In his office. Down the hall.
T1: I think I can hear my blood flowing.
T2: I think I can hear your blood flowing.
T1: It's too quiet.
T2: Way too quiet.
T1: I'm going to die it's so quiet.
T2: I would miss you.
T1: I would miss you, too.
T2: But I would steal all the snacks in your desk.
T1: I would expect nothing less. Oh. Sorry.
T2: Dude. I heard that. What was that?
T1: I burped. I thought it was going to come out really quietly but here, in the great chasm of silence, it sounded like a volcano.
T2: I think the client on the conference call heard you.
T1: Shut up. Put your headphones on.
T2: THEY ARE. That's how loud you are.
T1: You know, you aren't so quiet yourself, missy. Could your keyboard be any louder?
T2: I ordered it especially so. Did it just to annoy you and make you less productive.
T1: Mission accomplished. It rings in my head like a thousand Barbie dolls running across the floor in their plastic high heels.
T2: What is it with you and Barbies?
T1: Dunnno. Ugh. Sounds like Earl had something bad for lunch.
T2: That's going to smell.
T1: Why doesn't he use the air spray. That's why we put it in there.
T2: It's admitting he did it.
T1: Everyone KNOWS he did it. We can all hear it. And smell it. And it sticks to him.
T2: What does?
T1: The smell. It sticks. Sometimes that happens. Like you think you've left a stink behind and it decides to follow you. Because it likes you. It's like a puppy.
T2: You have some serious issues.
T1: Is it lunch time yet?
T2: It's 9:15.
T1: So you've already eaten yours?
T2: Yes.
T1: Natch.
T2: I don't mind if you eat your apple.
T1: What if I chew really slow? Then you won't hear.
T2: Yeah. You've tried that before. Doesn't work.
T1: You heard that?
T2: It was like someone trying to open a hard candy slowly at the opera.
T1: Why do people at the theater suddenly need hard candy? I have never seen anyone eat hard candy at any other time but get into a theatre and they just have to have it, can't wait, need it need it need it.
T2: Same reason why everyone wants to laugh in church.
T1: You know
T2: We don't have time for this. I have to go collate.
T1: Can I help?
T2: We've been through this.
T1: People can change.
T2: Eat your apple; I'm leaving my desk.
And this is why we have good jobs, no IM, and work very, very far away from each other. But she does have a unisex bathroom about 10 feet from her desk. BWAHAHAHAHHAA.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Observations at a bar
I watch the stupid girl giggle at the outside bar. She's barely 22, has just finished working at the mall (she's manager at Claire's now, woo hoo!), and is letting off some steam by drinking a 40 in the hot afternoon sun. The guys are leering and the combination of beer, sun, and 22 is going to land her puking in the bathroom in fewer than 39 minutes. She'll get dragged home by her friends, fall asleep on a friend's smelly couch, and show up to the mall at 10:45 to sell scrunchies and cheap earring to tweens.
And watching this drama unfold, I think to myself:
1. Why are we 30 somethings drinking at this bar?
2. This is why I went to college.
It has no course number, doesn't get graded, but every student will be tested, repeatedly, for all the years he/she is in college, be it 4 or 12. Let's hope it's not 12. Seriously, people.
The Internal Intoxication Alert.
This alert, honed through four years, is made up of all those little things that tell you when you are:
1. Having fun
2. Having too much fun
3. Definitely near trouble
4. Going to holding onto the floor for the next 24 hours.
Different stages manifest in a unique manner for each of us and that's why you go to colllege: to give you four years to diagnose yourself under a myriad of circumstances and behave accordingly. Me? Stage one meant that I was laughing pretty hard and only slightly obsessing about how clean the bar bathroom would be. Stage 4 basically involved lying like a speedbump on the floor, awake and coherent but definitely not moving on purpose.
Freshman spend a lot of time in Stage 4 because they haven't been in training long enough. Juniors make the most of this fact and torture the freshman because when the freshman pukes, they won't be in the same dorm. Seniors lead the way, seeming able to linger forever at Stage 2. It takes years of training to get to this status. By the time you graduate, you should be a professional.
And there are two things will obliterate it in mere weeks and leave you immobilized after two beers like a Freshman girl from Iowa.
1. Babies.
2. Graduate School.
Either of these situations will require you start practice all over and require diligent training to get back to your peak, "I can drink a box of wine in a night and be up for my 8:30 Western Civ test with time to brush my teeth" shape.
But still, it's like getting on a bike. Or, in some cases, a unicycle. But still, those four years of training will come back. You'll be fine.
And watching this drama unfold, I think to myself:
1. Why are we 30 somethings drinking at this bar?
2. This is why I went to college.
It has no course number, doesn't get graded, but every student will be tested, repeatedly, for all the years he/she is in college, be it 4 or 12. Let's hope it's not 12. Seriously, people.
The Internal Intoxication Alert.
This alert, honed through four years, is made up of all those little things that tell you when you are:
1. Having fun
2. Having too much fun
3. Definitely near trouble
4. Going to holding onto the floor for the next 24 hours.
Different stages manifest in a unique manner for each of us and that's why you go to colllege: to give you four years to diagnose yourself under a myriad of circumstances and behave accordingly. Me? Stage one meant that I was laughing pretty hard and only slightly obsessing about how clean the bar bathroom would be. Stage 4 basically involved lying like a speedbump on the floor, awake and coherent but definitely not moving on purpose.
Freshman spend a lot of time in Stage 4 because they haven't been in training long enough. Juniors make the most of this fact and torture the freshman because when the freshman pukes, they won't be in the same dorm. Seniors lead the way, seeming able to linger forever at Stage 2. It takes years of training to get to this status. By the time you graduate, you should be a professional.
And there are two things will obliterate it in mere weeks and leave you immobilized after two beers like a Freshman girl from Iowa.
1. Babies.
2. Graduate School.
Either of these situations will require you start practice all over and require diligent training to get back to your peak, "I can drink a box of wine in a night and be up for my 8:30 Western Civ test with time to brush my teeth" shape.
But still, it's like getting on a bike. Or, in some cases, a unicycle. But still, those four years of training will come back. You'll be fine.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Why F1 is Mega Cool
I will not bash sassifrascar today. I merely wish to worship F1.
So far, I think this is the best year ever in F1. Sure, we all liked watching Shumacher obliterate the field and every record ever set. We enjoyed trying to compare him to Fangio (which is nearly ridiculous because the sport today is nearly unrecognizable to the sport as it was then; just look at the steering wheels -- F1 Racing did a great article on this a few years ago). We enjoyed wondering what life would be like without him, what his legacy would be. We Americans LIVE for crowning people king (because we didn't have one until we got Obama). Of course, we're also terribly fickle, so just slowing down a wee bit on our track to let Barrichello pass will make your name mudd and get you booed.
And we loved watching Lewis Hamilton hit the scene like a bomb, creating his own "greatest ever" conversations. I suspect we did NOT love watching Kimi win in 2007 -- mostly because Kimi doesn't talk much, though if his antics of years past were more prevalently shared over here, we'd embrace him as our own bad boy. If only he partied with Diddy.
But this year, we're all over the place. Brawn? I mean, we all love Brawn but who ever heard of a new team coming out this successfully? I don't care how experienced you are ... I mean you've got your lead, last-minute sponsor hitting on your driver's girlfriend (we live for this gossip). That's gotta cause team distraction. Got to. But no. Out the come and they win.
And win again.
I've got Barrichello back up on the podium, his huge grin in the press conference and Jenson finally starting to live up to the potential we long suspected he had. But wait -- what's this? Vettel? VETTEL? Webber? Now, I adore Webber (in fact, I suspect most men do as well, he's that guy) but who doesn't love to see Red Bull finally up there? And Vettel carving out his name as the best man in the wet? It's awesome. All of it. Because it's a change, it's different. And, if you paid attention to how everyone finished in China, you know that the team drivers and cars are evenly matched and working together well -- that's how you stack your cars at the finish.
These days, all bets are off. Who knows who'll land on top. And do you know why this is possible? Well, my sporting friends, I'll tell you: they shook up the rules, teams took chances, and teams played it safe. It's creative out there. And it's mega cool.
And the drivers look cute in their coveralls. Except Villeneuve who likes them baggy and looks like he's in his PJs. But no one really likes him anyway. And that's why he's a truck driver now.
So far, I think this is the best year ever in F1. Sure, we all liked watching Shumacher obliterate the field and every record ever set. We enjoyed trying to compare him to Fangio (which is nearly ridiculous because the sport today is nearly unrecognizable to the sport as it was then; just look at the steering wheels -- F1 Racing did a great article on this a few years ago). We enjoyed wondering what life would be like without him, what his legacy would be. We Americans LIVE for crowning people king (because we didn't have one until we got Obama). Of course, we're also terribly fickle, so just slowing down a wee bit on our track to let Barrichello pass will make your name mudd and get you booed.
And we loved watching Lewis Hamilton hit the scene like a bomb, creating his own "greatest ever" conversations. I suspect we did NOT love watching Kimi win in 2007 -- mostly because Kimi doesn't talk much, though if his antics of years past were more prevalently shared over here, we'd embrace him as our own bad boy. If only he partied with Diddy.
But this year, we're all over the place. Brawn? I mean, we all love Brawn but who ever heard of a new team coming out this successfully? I don't care how experienced you are ... I mean you've got your lead, last-minute sponsor hitting on your driver's girlfriend (we live for this gossip). That's gotta cause team distraction. Got to. But no. Out the come and they win.
And win again.
I've got Barrichello back up on the podium, his huge grin in the press conference and Jenson finally starting to live up to the potential we long suspected he had. But wait -- what's this? Vettel? VETTEL? Webber? Now, I adore Webber (in fact, I suspect most men do as well, he's that guy) but who doesn't love to see Red Bull finally up there? And Vettel carving out his name as the best man in the wet? It's awesome. All of it. Because it's a change, it's different. And, if you paid attention to how everyone finished in China, you know that the team drivers and cars are evenly matched and working together well -- that's how you stack your cars at the finish.
These days, all bets are off. Who knows who'll land on top. And do you know why this is possible? Well, my sporting friends, I'll tell you: they shook up the rules, teams took chances, and teams played it safe. It's creative out there. And it's mega cool.
And the drivers look cute in their coveralls. Except Villeneuve who likes them baggy and looks like he's in his PJs. But no one really likes him anyway. And that's why he's a truck driver now.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Three random things to share
by gretchen
1. Have you ever taken a black light and looked around your house? For those of us with pets, it's particularly mortifying.
2. When my brother was born, my mother marveled at his fantastic tan. He was jaundiced.
3. One day, after scarfing down a huge piece of chocolate cake and diet coke at lunch, my sugar high was so extreme that my boss asked one of my coworkers to, "Please take her for a walk or something to calm her down."
1. Have you ever taken a black light and looked around your house? For those of us with pets, it's particularly mortifying.
2. When my brother was born, my mother marveled at his fantastic tan. He was jaundiced.
3. One day, after scarfing down a huge piece of chocolate cake and diet coke at lunch, my sugar high was so extreme that my boss asked one of my coworkers to, "Please take her for a walk or something to calm her down."
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
F1 vs. NASCAR: Part Two
by gretchen
I've gotten myself under control. You're forgive my ridiculous anti-NASCAR rant (though I'm still anti-NASCAR). Until. The Day. I. Die. And now let me tell you one more reason why:
Rain.
The boys in the nothing-stock-about-em stock cars, have to stop when the sky squeezes even the smallest bit of moisture out. And I would like to know why. First, they have windshields. Second, they are inside the car. Third, they are driving in one direction, turning four corners which all have the same embankment and angle. So, if you ask me, they're cowards.
Formula 1, on the other hand, gave a stupendous example of why their racing is the best. No, it's not just because yesterday Mark Webber, hands-down the nicest and hottest man in motorsports finally got his recently-shattered leg on the podium, but because for the second race in a row, those boys were speeding around twists and turns in heavy downpour. Oh, and they are part of the car, not in the car. Their windshields are their helmet visors -- do imagine what happens to your glasses when you ride your bike in the rain. Now conjugate to a helmet and contemplate the fogging. Now add to that rooster tails galore, rivers of water on the track, and go over 150 miles an hour. What have you got? Basically driving blindfolded.
And if that's not fun to watch, I don't know what is.
You get this, this, or this.
Sure, they called the last race in Malaysia when the monsoon arrived and decided not to relent. That's because they are adventurous. Not stupid.
So, in terms of exciting rain races:
SASSIFRASSCAR: -23
F1: 172
NOTE: In the spirit of the FIAs inclination toward complicated procedures and silly points allocations, Crease in the Pants has its own method of ranking, which will be changed without notice and at will and will only be described using excessively complicated legalese that even we don't understand. Jean Todt: take note that we fans DO NOT LIKE THIS ABOUT THE FIA. And we're telling you because we all know you backed away from Ferrari so you can take over the FIA, though you looked so plain in Shanghai without your crimson shirt...
I've gotten myself under control. You're forgive my ridiculous anti-NASCAR rant (though I'm still anti-NASCAR). Until. The Day. I. Die. And now let me tell you one more reason why:
Rain.
The boys in the nothing-stock-about-em stock cars, have to stop when the sky squeezes even the smallest bit of moisture out. And I would like to know why. First, they have windshields. Second, they are inside the car. Third, they are driving in one direction, turning four corners which all have the same embankment and angle. So, if you ask me, they're cowards.
Formula 1, on the other hand, gave a stupendous example of why their racing is the best. No, it's not just because yesterday Mark Webber, hands-down the nicest and hottest man in motorsports finally got his recently-shattered leg on the podium, but because for the second race in a row, those boys were speeding around twists and turns in heavy downpour. Oh, and they are part of the car, not in the car. Their windshields are their helmet visors -- do imagine what happens to your glasses when you ride your bike in the rain. Now conjugate to a helmet and contemplate the fogging. Now add to that rooster tails galore, rivers of water on the track, and go over 150 miles an hour. What have you got? Basically driving blindfolded.
And if that's not fun to watch, I don't know what is.
You get this, this, or this.
Sure, they called the last race in Malaysia when the monsoon arrived and decided not to relent. That's because they are adventurous. Not stupid.
So, in terms of exciting rain races:
SASSIFRASSCAR: -23
F1: 172
NOTE: In the spirit of the FIAs inclination toward complicated procedures and silly points allocations, Crease in the Pants has its own method of ranking, which will be changed without notice and at will and will only be described using excessively complicated legalese that even we don't understand. Jean Todt: take note that we fans DO NOT LIKE THIS ABOUT THE FIA. And we're telling you because we all know you backed away from Ferrari so you can take over the FIA, though you looked so plain in Shanghai without your crimson shirt...
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I hate to clean, but I heart soap
by still-vacationing tess
The unwashed masses sneer when I confess to my General Hospital addiction and inevitably they ask how I could possibly watch “that crap.” I’ll agree whole-heartedly that, just like every other show, it’s not for everyone. Although the soap genre has outgrown the housewife-eating-bonbons-while-ignoring-her-kids-who-are-setting-fire-to-the-dog fixation of the fifties, it’s not exactly Masterpiece Theatre either. Like millions of other soapies, I welcome often slipshod writing and frequently flawed performances. I embrace careless story-telling and implausible consequences. I accept inadequate lighting and uninspired costuming. I condone seemingly endless exposition followed by mind-numbingly idiotic anti-climax. I even approve of the stunning hair models and suave metrosexuals cast in lieu of actors.
General Hospital, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Most of all, I love that these characters, some of whom I’ve watched since my teens, feel like old friends. Because we invite these characters into our homes each day, soaps have developed the most vocal and devoted fans of any television genre via the internet, soap rags, hotlines, personal appearances, cruises, and conventions. It’s awe-inspiring that there are vast communities of on- and off-line fans who come terrifyingly close to waging minor wars over their favorite characters and/or couples.
I love watching characters evolve from callow youth, through the mistakes and re-takes of young adulthood, and into jaded maturity (which is followed in short order by a pink slip for appearing inappropriately old to the ever-younger, much-prized demographic).
I love how characters are permitted second (third, fourth, and fifth) chances. They instantaneously rebound from heartbreak, gunshots, cancer, brain surgery, addiction, child loss, mental illness (or any other calamity the writers can imagine) and return to lives unscathed.
I love watching completely unsuitable partners fall in love, or at least into bed, under the most absurd circumstances and for all the wrong reasons. In 32 years of soap-scoping I have yet to witness a wedding that failed to be interrupted by Someone with a Grudge Who Suddenly Felt Compelled to Share a Secret.
I love a good WTD (Who’s The Daddy) story. Those pesky DNA results can change anytime the writers have a new idea. You can always be sure of an upcoming WTD when the writers won’t even let the poor character shower between indiscretions; not only skanky but huge plot-pointing anvil. Only in soaps can wives fool their husbands and obstetricians into believing fake pregnancies with just a pillow and an oversized dress.
I love it that most characters give birth outside of the hospital under extremely dire circumstances like being accidentally shot in the brain by your ex-husband during a contraction. But when an actress reads that she’s giving birth inside General Hospital … queue up the Emmy submission tape now! The birth of a child within the walls of the hospital invariably leads to some seriously heart-wrenching story telling. And Emmy-nominated performances.
I love it that blond-haired, blue-eyed children improbably spring forth from the loins of dark-eyed, dark-haired couples. Babies (born in elevators, mine shafts, train wrecks, panic rooms, or car trunks) grow into troubled teens overnight via the condition referred to as SORAS (soap opera rapid aging syndrome). I love it that there’s frequently fewer than ten years difference between generations and each Spring we’re implausibly introduced to a new crop of rich, well-dressed, bratty teenagers who will carry the Torch of Angst for tweens and teens during Summer break.
I love it that the mob enforcer is the moral compass of the city and that in a huge hospital one doctor is personally responsible for everything from performing neurosurgery to treating ingrown toenails, but still has time to bed various nurses in the broom closet.
I love it that everyone always has enough money to live in great houses with 24/7 daycare. Even when characters have careers, they’re jobs that don’t actually take time away from their personal lives and loves. Jobs like chief of staff, consigliere, DA, corporate raider, mobster, magazine editor, police chief, hotelier, killer, CEO, FBI agent; you know “Joe-jobs” that don’t require a lot of time or effort.
I love it that characters from all walks of life (and in all kinds of shoes) hoof it through the city and inevitably collide on the pier. Strangely, the same characters who walk everywhere also have 24/7 access to private jets that whisk them away to private islands at a moment’s notice. But if there are two characters getting in their seldom-seen cars, a freak accident is about to happen which will no doubt result in amnesia and pregnancy-loss for one party and a quick cover up from the other.
I love it that designers dress actors in LA for a mythical soap town in upstate New York giving them two options: black with light gray or black with dark gray. Apparently immune to the climate, the characters spend all winter wearing 5” heels and tank tops while supposedly traipsing about in blizzards.
I love it that the bravest way to face urgently impending death is to suddenly have sex with another character. Because that’s real. Not that any character is ever definitely dead. He could come back at any time. And if he does somehow manage to cheat death, he may or may not have the same face. Death is like that – it changes you. Sometimes.
I love it when a character receives a new face, voice, and hair thanks to a new actress. It’s particularly satisfying when she remarks, “I just don’t feel like myself anymore,” or her lover comments on how great she suddenly looks: “Did you cut your hair or something?”
I love daytime’s ever-tightening budget constraints. Actors are forced to push through scenes after missed lines and flubbed blocking, but still make it work. Sets are re-purposed so that the bedroom of a cottage in one scene is identical to the family room of a mansion across town in the next scene. And a city chock-a-block full of millionaires and billionaires warrants only two restaurants (one for the filthy rich and one for the merely affluent) and two bars (one with a hot-looking, hard-drinking bartender and the other one).
Each week there is more bad news for soaps. Expensive to produce, shows are being chopped, salaries are being slashed, and actors are being axed. Game shows and talk shows are cheaper and can sell more ads. Soap fans know that it’s business, not personal. And we’re painfully aware that not everyone condones our investment of time and emotion in a town that doesn’t exist. But it’s entertainment: one man’s Danielle Steele is another’s Shakespeare. And this is the guilty pleasure that millions of us have embraced. We’ll miss our friends, our gummy bear mobsters and the women we love to loathe, the misunderstood sluts and the pompous philanthropists. Sadly Port Charles will go the way of so many other imaginary towns. I just hope she goes out with a bang (or SICE: Sweeps Induced Cataclysmic Event) rather than a whimper. But until that final farewell, my fellow GHers and I will continue to praise and criticize, cheer and jeer, but certainly cherish every single day we have left with our beloved buddies in Port Chuck.
The unwashed masses sneer when I confess to my General Hospital addiction and inevitably they ask how I could possibly watch “that crap.” I’ll agree whole-heartedly that, just like every other show, it’s not for everyone. Although the soap genre has outgrown the housewife-eating-bonbons-while-ignoring-her-kids-who-are-setting-fire-to-the-dog fixation of the fifties, it’s not exactly Masterpiece Theatre either. Like millions of other soapies, I welcome often slipshod writing and frequently flawed performances. I embrace careless story-telling and implausible consequences. I accept inadequate lighting and uninspired costuming. I condone seemingly endless exposition followed by mind-numbingly idiotic anti-climax. I even approve of the stunning hair models and suave metrosexuals cast in lieu of actors.
General Hospital, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Most of all, I love that these characters, some of whom I’ve watched since my teens, feel like old friends. Because we invite these characters into our homes each day, soaps have developed the most vocal and devoted fans of any television genre via the internet, soap rags, hotlines, personal appearances, cruises, and conventions. It’s awe-inspiring that there are vast communities of on- and off-line fans who come terrifyingly close to waging minor wars over their favorite characters and/or couples.
I love watching characters evolve from callow youth, through the mistakes and re-takes of young adulthood, and into jaded maturity (which is followed in short order by a pink slip for appearing inappropriately old to the ever-younger, much-prized demographic).
I love how characters are permitted second (third, fourth, and fifth) chances. They instantaneously rebound from heartbreak, gunshots, cancer, brain surgery, addiction, child loss, mental illness (or any other calamity the writers can imagine) and return to lives unscathed.
I love watching completely unsuitable partners fall in love, or at least into bed, under the most absurd circumstances and for all the wrong reasons. In 32 years of soap-scoping I have yet to witness a wedding that failed to be interrupted by Someone with a Grudge Who Suddenly Felt Compelled to Share a Secret.
I love a good WTD (Who’s The Daddy) story. Those pesky DNA results can change anytime the writers have a new idea. You can always be sure of an upcoming WTD when the writers won’t even let the poor character shower between indiscretions; not only skanky but huge plot-pointing anvil. Only in soaps can wives fool their husbands and obstetricians into believing fake pregnancies with just a pillow and an oversized dress.
I love it that most characters give birth outside of the hospital under extremely dire circumstances like being accidentally shot in the brain by your ex-husband during a contraction. But when an actress reads that she’s giving birth inside General Hospital … queue up the Emmy submission tape now! The birth of a child within the walls of the hospital invariably leads to some seriously heart-wrenching story telling. And Emmy-nominated performances.
I love it that blond-haired, blue-eyed children improbably spring forth from the loins of dark-eyed, dark-haired couples. Babies (born in elevators, mine shafts, train wrecks, panic rooms, or car trunks) grow into troubled teens overnight via the condition referred to as SORAS (soap opera rapid aging syndrome). I love it that there’s frequently fewer than ten years difference between generations and each Spring we’re implausibly introduced to a new crop of rich, well-dressed, bratty teenagers who will carry the Torch of Angst for tweens and teens during Summer break.
I love it that the mob enforcer is the moral compass of the city and that in a huge hospital one doctor is personally responsible for everything from performing neurosurgery to treating ingrown toenails, but still has time to bed various nurses in the broom closet.
I love it that everyone always has enough money to live in great houses with 24/7 daycare. Even when characters have careers, they’re jobs that don’t actually take time away from their personal lives and loves. Jobs like chief of staff, consigliere, DA, corporate raider, mobster, magazine editor, police chief, hotelier, killer, CEO, FBI agent; you know “Joe-jobs” that don’t require a lot of time or effort.
I love it that characters from all walks of life (and in all kinds of shoes) hoof it through the city and inevitably collide on the pier. Strangely, the same characters who walk everywhere also have 24/7 access to private jets that whisk them away to private islands at a moment’s notice. But if there are two characters getting in their seldom-seen cars, a freak accident is about to happen which will no doubt result in amnesia and pregnancy-loss for one party and a quick cover up from the other.
I love it that designers dress actors in LA for a mythical soap town in upstate New York giving them two options: black with light gray or black with dark gray. Apparently immune to the climate, the characters spend all winter wearing 5” heels and tank tops while supposedly traipsing about in blizzards.
I love it that the bravest way to face urgently impending death is to suddenly have sex with another character. Because that’s real. Not that any character is ever definitely dead. He could come back at any time. And if he does somehow manage to cheat death, he may or may not have the same face. Death is like that – it changes you. Sometimes.
I love it when a character receives a new face, voice, and hair thanks to a new actress. It’s particularly satisfying when she remarks, “I just don’t feel like myself anymore,” or her lover comments on how great she suddenly looks: “Did you cut your hair or something?”
I love daytime’s ever-tightening budget constraints. Actors are forced to push through scenes after missed lines and flubbed blocking, but still make it work. Sets are re-purposed so that the bedroom of a cottage in one scene is identical to the family room of a mansion across town in the next scene. And a city chock-a-block full of millionaires and billionaires warrants only two restaurants (one for the filthy rich and one for the merely affluent) and two bars (one with a hot-looking, hard-drinking bartender and the other one).
Each week there is more bad news for soaps. Expensive to produce, shows are being chopped, salaries are being slashed, and actors are being axed. Game shows and talk shows are cheaper and can sell more ads. Soap fans know that it’s business, not personal. And we’re painfully aware that not everyone condones our investment of time and emotion in a town that doesn’t exist. But it’s entertainment: one man’s Danielle Steele is another’s Shakespeare. And this is the guilty pleasure that millions of us have embraced. We’ll miss our friends, our gummy bear mobsters and the women we love to loathe, the misunderstood sluts and the pompous philanthropists. Sadly Port Charles will go the way of so many other imaginary towns. I just hope she goes out with a bang (or SICE: Sweeps Induced Cataclysmic Event) rather than a whimper. But until that final farewell, my fellow GHers and I will continue to praise and criticize, cheer and jeer, but certainly cherish every single day we have left with our beloved buddies in Port Chuck.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Who's your guy?
NASCAR. SILLY RIDICULOUS NASCAR.
I am not a NASCAR fan. No boogedy boogedy for me. No, let's go racing. No numbers on the back of my car. It's a dirty word to me. DIRTY WORD. Wanna call me a girl? Wanna tell me I don't get it? Well, back off. This is the house of racing and I am a child of a certified gear head. F1 baby. That's where it's at. NASCAR is little more than a Sunday afternoon game of bumper cars infused with cheap beer and gobs of heart-stopping food. And love handles.
You be the judge of my basis to make these claims? I know racing. It's in my blood.
Daughter of one life-long Porsche owner. A mechanical engineer who spent many a weekend working on his car, a little girl named Gretchen ready to hand him the tools he needed and watching in wonder as this engineer brought his cars to life. He was a driving instructor at Watkins Glen. Many a Sunday I sat on the couch with him while he watched Champ Car races (no IRL back then), though I was no doubt waiting for the moment when he fell asleep so I could steal the remote. As soon as I changed the channel, one eye would open: "I'm watching that." Rats. Sunday means open wheeled racing.
And then there is The Boy, my dear Jamie who is also an unbelievable mechanic/engineer, who built his own Cobra, who revived a dead Corvette, and who is a member of the Bonneville Salt Flats 150 club. He raced for a year. He's fast. He's even faster in the rain. He's one serious driving stud. I brought him over to F1.
I must finally pay homage to dear Denton, the man who introduced me to F1. Sunday after Sunday, we ambled downstairs to watch the races in 2000, the year of Schumacher. It was because of him that I decided to go to Indy in 2001, just after 9/11, to see the F1 circus for myself. Attended every Grand Prix at Indy since until they stupidly stopped hosting. It is because of him that I fell in love with men like Mark, Kimi, Mika, Lewis, Rubens, David, Suto, etc. Denton: THANK YOU.
My Sunday mornings are spent listing to my beloved Bob Varsha, my dear David Hobbs, the scholar Steve Matchette, and my future husband in another life, Peter Gorgeous Windsor. I love that man.
AND I change my own oil.
So I am a car girl. I know my stuff. I love the races. But I am not and never will be a NASCAR fan. I don't care if Montoya headed over to the dark side. I don't care if Villenueuve is racing trucks (no one ever liked him anyway). NASCAR: no. NO. no. F1? That's what it's all about and we Americans need to get on the damn bandwagon. WHAT IS IT WITH NASCAR? It's more abotu the beer than the driving excitment, it's more about talking shit than about the complexities of racing, it's about behaving badly (and I've seen you people in action). F1 -- it's .... just so much BETTER.
I'm starting a series of blogs about this. I'm inspired. And PETER WINDSOR: you need to hire me to support your F1 team. Look out. I'm the voice of the American Woman F1 fan. We're endangered. You need me.
I am not a NASCAR fan. No boogedy boogedy for me. No, let's go racing. No numbers on the back of my car. It's a dirty word to me. DIRTY WORD. Wanna call me a girl? Wanna tell me I don't get it? Well, back off. This is the house of racing and I am a child of a certified gear head. F1 baby. That's where it's at. NASCAR is little more than a Sunday afternoon game of bumper cars infused with cheap beer and gobs of heart-stopping food. And love handles.
You be the judge of my basis to make these claims? I know racing. It's in my blood.
Daughter of one life-long Porsche owner. A mechanical engineer who spent many a weekend working on his car, a little girl named Gretchen ready to hand him the tools he needed and watching in wonder as this engineer brought his cars to life. He was a driving instructor at Watkins Glen. Many a Sunday I sat on the couch with him while he watched Champ Car races (no IRL back then), though I was no doubt waiting for the moment when he fell asleep so I could steal the remote. As soon as I changed the channel, one eye would open: "I'm watching that." Rats. Sunday means open wheeled racing.
And then there is The Boy, my dear Jamie who is also an unbelievable mechanic/engineer, who built his own Cobra, who revived a dead Corvette, and who is a member of the Bonneville Salt Flats 150 club. He raced for a year. He's fast. He's even faster in the rain. He's one serious driving stud. I brought him over to F1.
I must finally pay homage to dear Denton, the man who introduced me to F1. Sunday after Sunday, we ambled downstairs to watch the races in 2000, the year of Schumacher. It was because of him that I decided to go to Indy in 2001, just after 9/11, to see the F1 circus for myself. Attended every Grand Prix at Indy since until they stupidly stopped hosting. It is because of him that I fell in love with men like Mark, Kimi, Mika, Lewis, Rubens, David, Suto, etc. Denton: THANK YOU.
My Sunday mornings are spent listing to my beloved Bob Varsha, my dear David Hobbs, the scholar Steve Matchette, and my future husband in another life, Peter Gorgeous Windsor. I love that man.
AND I change my own oil.
So I am a car girl. I know my stuff. I love the races. But I am not and never will be a NASCAR fan. I don't care if Montoya headed over to the dark side. I don't care if Villenueuve is racing trucks (no one ever liked him anyway). NASCAR: no. NO. no. F1? That's what it's all about and we Americans need to get on the damn bandwagon. WHAT IS IT WITH NASCAR? It's more abotu the beer than the driving excitment, it's more about talking shit than about the complexities of racing, it's about behaving badly (and I've seen you people in action). F1 -- it's .... just so much BETTER.
I'm starting a series of blogs about this. I'm inspired. And PETER WINDSOR: you need to hire me to support your F1 team. Look out. I'm the voice of the American Woman F1 fan. We're endangered. You need me.
The Horror of Horrors
by gretchen
Tessa is still gone, so I find myself forced to rant to you guys. All I can say is: Welcome to Tessa's world.
Last night Jame and I hit our favorite Thai place. Not only is the food great here, the people are so, so nice, service is fast (so you really can get in and out quickly if you need to), and it provides for some seriously delicious people watching. There is no demographic here; anything goes.
Now I could go on and on about all the different people but I'm going to cut to the chase and talk about this appalling woman last night. I notice people who eat alone. I notice them because I admire it, eating alone in public being something I could do but wouldn't enjoy. She came in, sat down and I noticed she placed her red jacket around her legs, as if she was cold. She turned on her laptop and started to work.
I learned a few things about her.
First, she'll allergic to wheat. We all learned this about her because she said it quite loudly, several times, and then demanded the very patient waitress write it down on her pad. She demanded this three times. Never seen anything like it. As if the waitress was an idiot. She's a nice lady, that waitress. NOT AN IDIOT.
Then I noticed she had man hands. This really cracked me up and I had to try to tell Jamie who couldn't hear me so the whole joke was lost.
After she got her food and ate some of it, she wanted to take it home. Which is just fine. Take-home means second dinner and who doesn't love second dinner? No one, that's who. However, she decided to tell the waitress exactly which containers she wanted and how she wanted the food arranged in the containers. She repeated these instructions a few times, even as the waitress WHO GOT IT walked back to the kitchen.
Then I learned about why bags suck. I learned they are bad for the environment, they waste the restaurant's money, and the ensure that the food will fall over the place in the car. She was quite adamant about this. And loud. So everyone in the restaurant was quite clear about her feelings. No volume levels there...
I watched her study the bill like it was her W2, watched her sigh, leave money on the table and get up to leave.
And I was disgusted. There's just no reason to be rude. I understand if something comes out wrong, I understand if someone just isn't getting it and you have to be firm, I even understand bitchy. But rude just isn't necessary. And this was a polite, prompt waitress doing her job quietly. She spoke very good English, so I know she could have understood, "Please, no wheat." "No, thank you; a bag isn't necessary." It really irritated me. You can tell so much by how a person treats waiters/waitresses -- if they are arrogant, gregarious, shy, insecure, dominant, or RUDE.
I wanted to go hug the waitress and I am hardly the hugging type (more on that another day). The woman was just rude. But that wasn't the worst thing I've seen yet. The worse thing I've seen is when she got up and put her sweater back on.
NO SHOES.
THE WOMAN WAS BAREFOOT.
NO SHOES. Not: the shoes got kicked off. NO SHOES. Left the house with naked feet. Left the house with nary a flip flop, let alone a gorgeous stiletto.
So what I'm seeing is that there is no value on manners OR shoes. PREPOSTEROUS. Bare feet in a restaurant in Rochester, NY -- not a beach eatery, not a Japanese restaurant where you slip off your shoes as part of the custom. See, had I noticed this before anything else, that would have told me that something was very, very wrong with this woman -- but the rudeness just confirmed it for me. She's clearly suffering from a very serious disease.
NO SHOES.
Ohmigod. I have to go buy a pair right now to cleanse the image from my mind.
Tessa is still gone, so I find myself forced to rant to you guys. All I can say is: Welcome to Tessa's world.
Last night Jame and I hit our favorite Thai place. Not only is the food great here, the people are so, so nice, service is fast (so you really can get in and out quickly if you need to), and it provides for some seriously delicious people watching. There is no demographic here; anything goes.
Now I could go on and on about all the different people but I'm going to cut to the chase and talk about this appalling woman last night. I notice people who eat alone. I notice them because I admire it, eating alone in public being something I could do but wouldn't enjoy. She came in, sat down and I noticed she placed her red jacket around her legs, as if she was cold. She turned on her laptop and started to work.
I learned a few things about her.
First, she'll allergic to wheat. We all learned this about her because she said it quite loudly, several times, and then demanded the very patient waitress write it down on her pad. She demanded this three times. Never seen anything like it. As if the waitress was an idiot. She's a nice lady, that waitress. NOT AN IDIOT.
Then I noticed she had man hands. This really cracked me up and I had to try to tell Jamie who couldn't hear me so the whole joke was lost.
After she got her food and ate some of it, she wanted to take it home. Which is just fine. Take-home means second dinner and who doesn't love second dinner? No one, that's who. However, she decided to tell the waitress exactly which containers she wanted and how she wanted the food arranged in the containers. She repeated these instructions a few times, even as the waitress WHO GOT IT walked back to the kitchen.
Then I learned about why bags suck. I learned they are bad for the environment, they waste the restaurant's money, and the ensure that the food will fall over the place in the car. She was quite adamant about this. And loud. So everyone in the restaurant was quite clear about her feelings. No volume levels there...
I watched her study the bill like it was her W2, watched her sigh, leave money on the table and get up to leave.
And I was disgusted. There's just no reason to be rude. I understand if something comes out wrong, I understand if someone just isn't getting it and you have to be firm, I even understand bitchy. But rude just isn't necessary. And this was a polite, prompt waitress doing her job quietly. She spoke very good English, so I know she could have understood, "Please, no wheat." "No, thank you; a bag isn't necessary." It really irritated me. You can tell so much by how a person treats waiters/waitresses -- if they are arrogant, gregarious, shy, insecure, dominant, or RUDE.
I wanted to go hug the waitress and I am hardly the hugging type (more on that another day). The woman was just rude. But that wasn't the worst thing I've seen yet. The worse thing I've seen is when she got up and put her sweater back on.
NO SHOES.
THE WOMAN WAS BAREFOOT.
NO SHOES. Not: the shoes got kicked off. NO SHOES. Left the house with naked feet. Left the house with nary a flip flop, let alone a gorgeous stiletto.
So what I'm seeing is that there is no value on manners OR shoes. PREPOSTEROUS. Bare feet in a restaurant in Rochester, NY -- not a beach eatery, not a Japanese restaurant where you slip off your shoes as part of the custom. See, had I noticed this before anything else, that would have told me that something was very, very wrong with this woman -- but the rudeness just confirmed it for me. She's clearly suffering from a very serious disease.
NO SHOES.
Ohmigod. I have to go buy a pair right now to cleanse the image from my mind.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Fiestaphobia (noun, an abnormal fear or dread of vacation)
by tess
Next week we embark on an extended stay in a third-world country. This is the first (and last) time The Hubs plans a vacation. After all, a little research tells you what to expect throughout the Virgin Islands and Lesser Antilles – palm trees, rum drinks, enough Patois to shop and eat. A few guidebooks render Paris, London, and Brussels relatively surprise-free. These are the vacations I’ve planned over the past sixteen years: nice, safe, expected, sanitary, if vaguely pre-chewed, vacations completely devoid of breath-taking highs and bewildering lows. I’m not at my best when faced with extremes and plan my life accordingly.
Proving that opposites attract, the Hubs fears nothing. He endured the Navy, he co-parented two now-grown sons, he sailed alone on a boat for years, he married a woman reported to be even more psychotic than me. He survived the Mekong River for God’s sake. This is not a man who embraces the pre-portioned, regurgitated vacations that have kept me relatively satisfied, if not enthralled, throughout my life.
I know that I should be “over the moon” at the prospect of facing “a once-in-a-lifetime experience” that “will alter [my] perceptions of Western beauty.” Agreed, I should buy into every cliché listed on the brochures. (Okay, there aren’t actually brochures – it’s a third world country and they need to spend their money on updating the antediluvian infrastructure of the country rather than paper and toner. But you get what I’m saying: even I know that I’m supposed to be psyched!) Far from thrilled, I’m facing a firing squad. Only they’re not just holding guns, they’re fondling every single abstraction that terrifies me.
My usual, albeit bizarre, day-to-day obsessions are further exacerbated by The Wretched Unknown: losing our passports, having an accident, getting robbed, requiring medical assistance, being murdered, flying for 28 hours in each direction, etc. Stuff happens. And I live in fear and dread that it will happen to me. But this trip provides bonus panic that has pitched me over the edge and into the Abyss of Anxiety.
In our holiday oasis, rabid dogs run rampant. According to local reports, again last month two people died of rabies. Okay, I get that two isn’t exactly a monster number but why are there rabid dogs everywhere? And freakin’ rabid monkeys. No, I’m not making that up. Rabid monkeys and dogs. Everywhere. I’m afraid of chihuahuas and have never been to a petting zoo in my life. Why? Because animals bite you and then you die. That’s why.
There are no public restrooms. And there aren’t bathrooms in stores and restaurants. And the few places one can find public facilities, even the guidebooks describe them as “disgusting” and lacking tissue. Instead there is -- again, not making this up -- a communal pitcher of non-potable water with which to flush and cleanse one’s self. Although I’m not generally a huge admirer of even the most hygienic public facilities, 85% of tourists suffer gastro-intestinal distress within the first three days of arrival. Somehow I don’t think The Hubs is going to be happy to sit in our little room “just in case” Something Poopy This Way Comes. And yet what’s the option? Being three hours from our house without access to a bathroom?
The food there is super uber off-the-charts hot. So on top of not knowing the language, we’ll be ordering insanely hot food (in restaurants without bathrooms!) that will fling me into paroxysms of gasping lungs, weeping eyes, and snotting nose. I can hear them chortling already (in a language I don’t understand): Serves the bigshot American capitalist pig right!
Scorpions and snakes. I think that sums it up nicely.
Months ago during a fleeting moment of married bliss and contrary to all evidence accumulated over the past sixteen years, I accepted the word of The Hubs without further research. This may well cost me my life. It’s true that there are no REQUIRED inoculations. There are, however, many RECOMMENDED inoculations including, but not limited to: Hepatitis A, Tuberculosis, Polio, Bird Flu, Rabies, Typhoid, Tetanus, Diphtheria, Japanese Encephalitis, Cholera, as well as specially-prescribed tablets to ward off Dengue Fever and Malaria. To those of you reading this after my excruciatingly painful death, please ensure that The Hubs does not marry anyone cuter, younger, funnier, thinner, or saner than I was.
And finally, even if somehow we manage not to be murdered in our beds, stung by a congregation of scorpions, or eaten by a pack of rabid poodles; if we refuse to die of embarrassment over soiled trousers, choke on the hottest peppers known to mankind, or succumb to cholera; still the most formidable culprit of our vacation might just be the specter of divorce. You see we’ve never actually spent twenty solid days together. Traveling during the very best of conditions (a short, first-class flight) can be a bit stressful. Twenty-eight hours each way crammed together in coach seats that are two small for each of us? Wow. And fifteen days in a country where we’re the only two people who speak English? That’s a lot of … togetherness. But I guess if we’re the only ones we can talk to, then it’s unlikely we’ll take the opportunity to neutralize one another. And it’s just poor manners to eradicate a loved one in-flight. So hopefully we’ll both survive the vacation. Shangri-la, here we come!
Next week we embark on an extended stay in a third-world country. This is the first (and last) time The Hubs plans a vacation. After all, a little research tells you what to expect throughout the Virgin Islands and Lesser Antilles – palm trees, rum drinks, enough Patois to shop and eat. A few guidebooks render Paris, London, and Brussels relatively surprise-free. These are the vacations I’ve planned over the past sixteen years: nice, safe, expected, sanitary, if vaguely pre-chewed, vacations completely devoid of breath-taking highs and bewildering lows. I’m not at my best when faced with extremes and plan my life accordingly.
Proving that opposites attract, the Hubs fears nothing. He endured the Navy, he co-parented two now-grown sons, he sailed alone on a boat for years, he married a woman reported to be even more psychotic than me. He survived the Mekong River for God’s sake. This is not a man who embraces the pre-portioned, regurgitated vacations that have kept me relatively satisfied, if not enthralled, throughout my life.
I know that I should be “over the moon” at the prospect of facing “a once-in-a-lifetime experience” that “will alter [my] perceptions of Western beauty.” Agreed, I should buy into every cliché listed on the brochures. (Okay, there aren’t actually brochures – it’s a third world country and they need to spend their money on updating the antediluvian infrastructure of the country rather than paper and toner. But you get what I’m saying: even I know that I’m supposed to be psyched!) Far from thrilled, I’m facing a firing squad. Only they’re not just holding guns, they’re fondling every single abstraction that terrifies me.
My usual, albeit bizarre, day-to-day obsessions are further exacerbated by The Wretched Unknown: losing our passports, having an accident, getting robbed, requiring medical assistance, being murdered, flying for 28 hours in each direction, etc. Stuff happens. And I live in fear and dread that it will happen to me. But this trip provides bonus panic that has pitched me over the edge and into the Abyss of Anxiety.
In our holiday oasis, rabid dogs run rampant. According to local reports, again last month two people died of rabies. Okay, I get that two isn’t exactly a monster number but why are there rabid dogs everywhere? And freakin’ rabid monkeys. No, I’m not making that up. Rabid monkeys and dogs. Everywhere. I’m afraid of chihuahuas and have never been to a petting zoo in my life. Why? Because animals bite you and then you die. That’s why.
There are no public restrooms. And there aren’t bathrooms in stores and restaurants. And the few places one can find public facilities, even the guidebooks describe them as “disgusting” and lacking tissue. Instead there is -- again, not making this up -- a communal pitcher of non-potable water with which to flush and cleanse one’s self. Although I’m not generally a huge admirer of even the most hygienic public facilities, 85% of tourists suffer gastro-intestinal distress within the first three days of arrival. Somehow I don’t think The Hubs is going to be happy to sit in our little room “just in case” Something Poopy This Way Comes. And yet what’s the option? Being three hours from our house without access to a bathroom?
The food there is super uber off-the-charts hot. So on top of not knowing the language, we’ll be ordering insanely hot food (in restaurants without bathrooms!) that will fling me into paroxysms of gasping lungs, weeping eyes, and snotting nose. I can hear them chortling already (in a language I don’t understand): Serves the bigshot American capitalist pig right!
Scorpions and snakes. I think that sums it up nicely.
Months ago during a fleeting moment of married bliss and contrary to all evidence accumulated over the past sixteen years, I accepted the word of The Hubs without further research. This may well cost me my life. It’s true that there are no REQUIRED inoculations. There are, however, many RECOMMENDED inoculations including, but not limited to: Hepatitis A, Tuberculosis, Polio, Bird Flu, Rabies, Typhoid, Tetanus, Diphtheria, Japanese Encephalitis, Cholera, as well as specially-prescribed tablets to ward off Dengue Fever and Malaria. To those of you reading this after my excruciatingly painful death, please ensure that The Hubs does not marry anyone cuter, younger, funnier, thinner, or saner than I was.
And finally, even if somehow we manage not to be murdered in our beds, stung by a congregation of scorpions, or eaten by a pack of rabid poodles; if we refuse to die of embarrassment over soiled trousers, choke on the hottest peppers known to mankind, or succumb to cholera; still the most formidable culprit of our vacation might just be the specter of divorce. You see we’ve never actually spent twenty solid days together. Traveling during the very best of conditions (a short, first-class flight) can be a bit stressful. Twenty-eight hours each way crammed together in coach seats that are two small for each of us? Wow. And fifteen days in a country where we’re the only two people who speak English? That’s a lot of … togetherness. But I guess if we’re the only ones we can talk to, then it’s unlikely we’ll take the opportunity to neutralize one another. And it’s just poor manners to eradicate a loved one in-flight. So hopefully we’ll both survive the vacation. Shangri-la, here we come!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Where the hell is she?
My inbox is lonely. It's suddenly a more serious place, oozing with spam -- nary a gem of laughter. Tessa, you see, is gone -- flying far, far away for about 28 years (or three weeks) -- and has no Internet access which, to me, sounds more like punishment than pleasure.
Fear not, my friends. Dear Tessa has left us a few posts to share while she's gone. And, for me, she left me this fantastic snippet of you-can't-make-this-up-hilarity.
http://www.bestweekever.tv/2009/03/27/omfg-shamwow-guy-shampows-a-prostitute-in-the-face/
love it.
Fear not, my friends. Dear Tessa has left us a few posts to share while she's gone. And, for me, she left me this fantastic snippet of you-can't-make-this-up-hilarity.
http://www.bestweekever.tv/2009/03/27/omfg-shamwow-guy-shampows-a-prostitute-in-the-face/
love it.
Won't you be my neighbor?
by tess
When we moved to Florida we promised ourselves that we’d have lives outside of work. We agreed that we’d befriend our neighbors. We committed to a new lifestyle that included couples we both enjoyed. We envisioned fictitious companions with whom we could go to dinner, play cards, have cocktail parties, go to the local Y. Good theory.
Making friends gets more complex as we get older. I never experienced it, but I’ve been told it’s very easy to make friends in high school and college. News to me. But I concede that however hard it may be to make friends as an adult, it becomes exponentially more difficult once the equation includes spouses. The fabled unicorn is easier to capture than the mythical couple-as-friends. If he’s smart, she requires a babysitter. If she’s funny, he’s a candidate for electroshock therapy.
We haven’t met a lot of our neighbors but none of them seems to be a good fit for us. Most of them have kids, so that’s a non-starter for those of us who are anklebiter-averse. The others have focused their time and energy: rollerblading freaks, gardening freaks, speed-boating freaks, opera freaks, outlet shopping freaks, camping freaks, nightclubbing freaks. See a pattern?
We may not know our neighbors’ names, but that doesn’t stop us from talking about them. So we’ve created descriptive labels. In fact, long after we know (and have forgotten) their real names, we refer to them in code.
There’s Little Dog Guy. He has a miniature pinscher who barks his head off at me. We’ve lived in our house for over five years and I’ve never once seen his wife. And then there’s The People Who Can’t Park. They just moved in next to Little Dog Guy and we don’t approve of their parking skills. Next is Orchid Lady who spends all day everyday gardening in her absolutely breathtaking front yard. Not surprisingly she’s got a great tan. And rounding out that side of the street is The Lush and his wife, Legs. She used to be a ballerina and has gorgeous legs; he’s a drunken landscaper.
Behind our house is Not Mike. He used to be Single Guy but then he introduced himself and although we can’t quite remember his name, we’re pretty sure that it isn’t Mike, hence Not Mike. Next to him are Part-time Pete and Plus One. They’re a very nice gay couple but they have a pool that they never use. (The bane of our existence is people who are fortunate enough to have pools but then don’t use them!) One of the guys must have Sunday morning custody of his two children because that’s the only time we ever hear a sound from that house. And even then they’re not in the damn pool!
The opposite side of the street starts with Poodle Lady who walks her ancient white poodle every evening so that she can chat up the neighbors. Then it’s Black Truck Bastard. On the day we moved in he was driving by and yelled at us because our moving truck was in his way. Forgive and forget? I think not. Next to him are The K-9 Cop and his wife. His police dog lives with them but we can’t tell if the wife is perpetually knocked up or just really fat. Painter Guy and Scrawny are always outside working on their lawn. She has two cute little dogs and he listens to The Dead really loud all weekend.
Directly across from us are Pinkster and Otis. Pinkster’s in her sixties but only wears pink -- that distinctive neon shade that penetrates eyeballs then causes them to bleed slowly out of their sockets. On Saturday morning at 9:00 Otis snaps open his folding lawn chair. And so begins the weekend. He putters, he paints, he power-washes, he empties and refills the garage, he mows, he trims, he edges, he blows, he plants, he scrubs, he tinkers, he fertilizes, he digs and refills holes. And then he perches upon The Royal Folding Chair of Judgment to oversee the neighborhood, surveying the comings and goings, scrutinizing his neighbors’ efforts, waving to passers by, reigning over his kingdom-let. Late Sunday night he removes the metaphorical white wig of justice and casts off his black vestments of court. Once he has returned his scepter to the broom closet, he carefully folds his throne, and prepares to return to his life as a bowling lane service rep.
To our left are The Renters. Our real neighbors moved out a couple of months ago having built a larger house a few miles closer to their jobs. I haven’t met The Renters but their recycling skills fail to indicate great genius. All boxes that are recycled must be completely flattened. Whenever I have tried to sneak a partially flattened box into the yellow bin, I have found it thrown unceremoniously into my front yard by extremely selective waste management dudes. I knew when I checked out their trash that The Renters were in for a rude recycling awakening. Lo and behold, the next evening all their rejected boxes were strewn throughout the street and yards. Damn Renters. But recently the garbage guys have enabled their bad behavior by actually accepting their unsliced boxes. What? WHAT? It’s an outrage. How can they learn proper recycling etiquette if you sanction their bad habits?
And rounding out our little neighborhood is The Halfway House. It was once a family home. But then we noticed that The Wife Whose Name I Never Learned was spending all her time working out and, consequently, losing a ton of weight. I told The Hubs that there’s only one reason a woman suddenly gets into the best shape of her life, and it’s certainly not for her cheerfully overweight but vaguely doltish husband. Shortly after she walked out, he bought a motorcycle and thus became Kawasaki Kenny. The transient inhabitants of The Halfway House don’t last long enough to warrant nicknames except for Kenny’s new girlfriend. She has a Fran Drescher voice, a Harvey Keitel face, and a medically enhanced bod. We call her Rack o’ Lamb.
We have not yet met the couples who will giddily grace our imaginary dinner parties. But we still believe that we’ll find them someday. In the meantime, we’ll continue to create our own entertainment by wondering what dreadful nicknames our neighbors have thrust upon us. The Hubs thinks maybe Ren & Stimpy, John & Yoko, or Abe & Mary Todd. But I think it’s probably more like Homer & Marge, Shrek & Fiona, or Beavis & Butthead. Oh well, I guess we’ll never know for sure.
When we moved to Florida we promised ourselves that we’d have lives outside of work. We agreed that we’d befriend our neighbors. We committed to a new lifestyle that included couples we both enjoyed. We envisioned fictitious companions with whom we could go to dinner, play cards, have cocktail parties, go to the local Y. Good theory.
Making friends gets more complex as we get older. I never experienced it, but I’ve been told it’s very easy to make friends in high school and college. News to me. But I concede that however hard it may be to make friends as an adult, it becomes exponentially more difficult once the equation includes spouses. The fabled unicorn is easier to capture than the mythical couple-as-friends. If he’s smart, she requires a babysitter. If she’s funny, he’s a candidate for electroshock therapy.
We haven’t met a lot of our neighbors but none of them seems to be a good fit for us. Most of them have kids, so that’s a non-starter for those of us who are anklebiter-averse. The others have focused their time and energy: rollerblading freaks, gardening freaks, speed-boating freaks, opera freaks, outlet shopping freaks, camping freaks, nightclubbing freaks. See a pattern?
We may not know our neighbors’ names, but that doesn’t stop us from talking about them. So we’ve created descriptive labels. In fact, long after we know (and have forgotten) their real names, we refer to them in code.
There’s Little Dog Guy. He has a miniature pinscher who barks his head off at me. We’ve lived in our house for over five years and I’ve never once seen his wife. And then there’s The People Who Can’t Park. They just moved in next to Little Dog Guy and we don’t approve of their parking skills. Next is Orchid Lady who spends all day everyday gardening in her absolutely breathtaking front yard. Not surprisingly she’s got a great tan. And rounding out that side of the street is The Lush and his wife, Legs. She used to be a ballerina and has gorgeous legs; he’s a drunken landscaper.
Behind our house is Not Mike. He used to be Single Guy but then he introduced himself and although we can’t quite remember his name, we’re pretty sure that it isn’t Mike, hence Not Mike. Next to him are Part-time Pete and Plus One. They’re a very nice gay couple but they have a pool that they never use. (The bane of our existence is people who are fortunate enough to have pools but then don’t use them!) One of the guys must have Sunday morning custody of his two children because that’s the only time we ever hear a sound from that house. And even then they’re not in the damn pool!
The opposite side of the street starts with Poodle Lady who walks her ancient white poodle every evening so that she can chat up the neighbors. Then it’s Black Truck Bastard. On the day we moved in he was driving by and yelled at us because our moving truck was in his way. Forgive and forget? I think not. Next to him are The K-9 Cop and his wife. His police dog lives with them but we can’t tell if the wife is perpetually knocked up or just really fat. Painter Guy and Scrawny are always outside working on their lawn. She has two cute little dogs and he listens to The Dead really loud all weekend.
Directly across from us are Pinkster and Otis. Pinkster’s in her sixties but only wears pink -- that distinctive neon shade that penetrates eyeballs then causes them to bleed slowly out of their sockets. On Saturday morning at 9:00 Otis snaps open his folding lawn chair. And so begins the weekend. He putters, he paints, he power-washes, he empties and refills the garage, he mows, he trims, he edges, he blows, he plants, he scrubs, he tinkers, he fertilizes, he digs and refills holes. And then he perches upon The Royal Folding Chair of Judgment to oversee the neighborhood, surveying the comings and goings, scrutinizing his neighbors’ efforts, waving to passers by, reigning over his kingdom-let. Late Sunday night he removes the metaphorical white wig of justice and casts off his black vestments of court. Once he has returned his scepter to the broom closet, he carefully folds his throne, and prepares to return to his life as a bowling lane service rep.
To our left are The Renters. Our real neighbors moved out a couple of months ago having built a larger house a few miles closer to their jobs. I haven’t met The Renters but their recycling skills fail to indicate great genius. All boxes that are recycled must be completely flattened. Whenever I have tried to sneak a partially flattened box into the yellow bin, I have found it thrown unceremoniously into my front yard by extremely selective waste management dudes. I knew when I checked out their trash that The Renters were in for a rude recycling awakening. Lo and behold, the next evening all their rejected boxes were strewn throughout the street and yards. Damn Renters. But recently the garbage guys have enabled their bad behavior by actually accepting their unsliced boxes. What? WHAT? It’s an outrage. How can they learn proper recycling etiquette if you sanction their bad habits?
And rounding out our little neighborhood is The Halfway House. It was once a family home. But then we noticed that The Wife Whose Name I Never Learned was spending all her time working out and, consequently, losing a ton of weight. I told The Hubs that there’s only one reason a woman suddenly gets into the best shape of her life, and it’s certainly not for her cheerfully overweight but vaguely doltish husband. Shortly after she walked out, he bought a motorcycle and thus became Kawasaki Kenny. The transient inhabitants of The Halfway House don’t last long enough to warrant nicknames except for Kenny’s new girlfriend. She has a Fran Drescher voice, a Harvey Keitel face, and a medically enhanced bod. We call her Rack o’ Lamb.
We have not yet met the couples who will giddily grace our imaginary dinner parties. But we still believe that we’ll find them someday. In the meantime, we’ll continue to create our own entertainment by wondering what dreadful nicknames our neighbors have thrust upon us. The Hubs thinks maybe Ren & Stimpy, John & Yoko, or Abe & Mary Todd. But I think it’s probably more like Homer & Marge, Shrek & Fiona, or Beavis & Butthead. Oh well, I guess we’ll never know for sure.
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