Archive for the ‘daily affirmations and observations’ Category
no great exit
Saturday evening I attended the Great Explorations Museum fundraising event aboard the StarLite dinner cruise ship. Normally I eschew any venue that employs “for a dazzling night out” as their signature slogan. But since
What ruins this picture more: the blinker or my cropping job?
my dear friend Penelope knows that no matter how many dirty martinis she drinks, I promise to do something insane enough to make even her look sober, she gave me one of her boarding passes. It seemed only fair that I make the effort to determine what is “cruise casual” when we are experiencing highs of 47 degrees.
Which brings me to my friend the Ringmaster and what cruise casual is not. His lion-taming wife may be able to rock an open-backed nautical tank, but she needs to crack her black whip the next time he picks out a rayon/polyester blend floral number better suited for braiding palm frond hats at the Nealwater (sic) Pier.
But in all fairness to the Ringmaster, most of us completely ignored the dress code. Just as we overlooked the fact that 300 people were crammed into a mirrored, neon lit, floating equivalent of a Motel 6 Lounge complete with a band that played “La Bamba.” Twice.
Everyone has their exit song. For my brother, and, well, most of the earth, it’s “The Electric Slide.” But La Bamba is right up there with “Funky Cold Medina” on my: hear-it-and-I’m-out playlist. It was during the second “Ay, Arriba, Arriba” that I realized the pure genius of hosting an event in quarters close enough to allow inadvertent anal sex with strangers. We. Can’t. Leave. What a brilliant plan by the Great Ex board, which is in large part led by my favorite (espresso) drinking partner (in crime) and gossip-mongering Yenta.
Because I could make no Great Exit, I had to endure more than a few painful discoveries:
- Sometimes when you bid on an autographed Bucs football in the silent auction, you are too intoxicated to put your bid number on the correct bid sheet and end up buying a baseball signed by someone you’ve never even heard of.
- Being introduced to a man who jokingly acts like he already knows you and even dated you in high school is cute and flirty. If he’s not 73.
- You’re better off eating the side dish accompanying the filet mignon than you are being a complete pain in the ass and ordering the vegetarian harvest. Unless you want to be the only stupid bitch on the whole boat who is eating squash floating in ketchup for dinner.
In an effort to entertain myself and horrify friends, I decided to dig out a life preserver and put it on over my Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress that is as close to cruise casual as I’m going to get without shuffleboard and an all-you-can-eat midnight pasta buffet. This plan is only amusing if I can keep a straight face as I socialize, peruse auction items and eat my zucchini while looking at everyone like, “What? Just trying to be safe.”
Enter my friend Murfreesboro who has beauty pageant good looks and Southern grace, but also is the type of girl who will jokingly wrestle your 240-lb personal trainer and accidentally rip off his arm. You do not want to mess with her. So when she jabbed her pointer into my life preserver hard enough to break a rib before pushing it down on my breasts so forcefully a mammogram seemed gentle, I realized the life preserver needed to go. After I recovered from my punctured lung, she pushed me, Grey Goose spilling, into an alcohol-induced set up with a still-technically-married, handsome in a Bee Gees sort of dreaminess guy who would have been all the more attractive had I not known for a fact his wife was waiting back at shore with a machete ready to give me a haircut. I once wore a headband for a year trying to grow out an unfortunate bangtastrophe. I was not taking any chances.
The night culminated with fireworks (romantic only if your date is not a slice of amaretto cheesecake) and a makeshift rickshaw ride by Murfreesboro. She pushed me down into a wheelbarrow at the marina and gave me a not surprisingly bumpy ride back to the Vinoy. Where, I’m pretty sure, my uterus is still lying on the sidewalk.
Notice the Murfreesboro poke hole
just another play of the day
Those who know me really well are all too familiar with my Plays of the Day or PODs (shortened out of necessity because they are, in fact, daily). Last night, while everyone was enjoying their extra hour of sleep, I was scrubbing bronzer out of my toenails. Because I’m not known for my grace or coordination, it may not surprise you that this photo is from me accidentally shattering a $23 bottle of Prescriptives bronzing liquid and not the result of a home invasion ordered by Brian.
I have to admit. Cleaning this mess made me feel a little clumsy and a lot Snooki. But without my bronzer, my face is the shade of Grey Poupon today. Please understand I am not jaundice. Just in desperate need of a Caribbean vacation and a trip to Sephora.
measures taken when I pump my own gas
Amazingly, I did not wear white today. But I did forget my umbrella and ran out of gas after the full-serve station already closed.
my only superpower(s)
I get a lot of suggestions about clever ways to earn enough scrap to pay my AmEx Platinum now that my marital settlement agreement of three Twinkies and a pillowcase is approaching finalization.
Here’s how that usually goes: I scoff, roll my eyes and then morph into a petulant child who drinks triple shots of espresso in her latte before reminding them that Brian has exiled my credit cards to a local landfill and has the terror watch alert raised to red if I so much as log on to my Amazon account.
“What AmEx? I’m barely eligible for a Discover card,” I snort. “Brian’s probably flying to Tahiti with all the frequent flyer miles I worked very hard to earn through years of Neiman Marcus last call marathons and sleepless nights on shopbop.com.”
But back to what toilets I’ll need to lick to pay for my lattes going forward. I have done some serious introspection to come up with a list of my skills. For the sake of my tarnished self esteem, let’s just call them “Superpowers:”
I can use my g-string as a scrunchee: Many of you maintain that this is more of a “party trick” than Superpower, but I beg to differ. Disappearing into a bathroom with no hair accessories whatsoever and emerging with a perfectly coiffed ponytail or ballerina bun is pretty extraordinary. Although handy for unexpected sleepovers, I’m not confident this has revenue-earning potential.
I can find missing children with my superior olfaction: You can once again diminish the impressiveness of this skill by calling me “dog nose” or asking me if I’m pregnant. But someone who knows her husband just ripped open a bag of chicken chunks before she even pulls into her driveway clearly should have her own comic book.
Wikipedia defines Hyperosmia as “the increased ability to smell – for example, being able to identify the perfume of the previous occupant of a chair.” (or knowing whether you had the seabass or the halibut after talking to you for 30 seconds)
Let’s ignore the fact that most terms used to describe me begin with “hyper” and focus on how I have used this Superpower for the greater good. There was the time I got upgraded to a suite in Vegas after calling the front desk and telling them my current room reeked of “prostitutes marinated in Stetson cologne.” Or when I got bumped up to first class on a flight back from Italy because the entire row of Saudi Arabians next to us removed their boots and raised their arms quite a bit (um, Islamic dress — not exactly light and breathable). Actually, that’s a lie. Alitalia never upgraded me. So I shoved lemon fingers up each nostril, swallowed a Valium (or three) and blacked out for eight hours.
Unfortunately, I’m not having any luck unearthing a profession that calls for this Superpower. Miami airport customs turned me down, citing some bullshit about how only canines sniff bags for bombs. Whatever.
So until my comic book “Hyperosmiatic Heroines” is published, I’ve decided to highlight a few recent assaults on my olfactories as a public service:
My loaner car from Reeves: My shocking loss of status at my car dealer of nearly a decade resulted in them providing me with a rusty, dented Chrysler 3000 that stunk of scented maxi pads, dry cleaning solution and Marlboro Lights. When the guy asked me if the car was okay, I told him “only with noseplugs.” Crickets.
Method Antibac Lemon Verbena Kitchen Cleaner: Only buy this if you want your carrara marble countertops to smell like insect repellent.
Downy Mountain Spring Fabric Softener: After I perform the gruesome, ungodly act of laundry, I do not want to be rewarded with clothes that smell like they were rolled around in pine sap at Girl Scout camp.
Gain Original Fresh Dryer Sheets: You know the completely shaved, greasy-haired Italian bodybuilder wearing the Tap Out tee and staring at your breasts in line at the grocery store to buy his canned tuna fish? Your clothes will smell like him if you use this.
My armpits after Ainsley’s School Fall Festival: Because I break out into an angry rash when I use any antiperspirant that actually works, I opt for Dove Invisible solid. It’s slightly less effective than oxygen.
Little Tree Air Freshener (Lively Lemon Scent): Not so much a bad smell, as much as a smell so powerful it actually squeezes the capillaries behind your eyes forcing you to call a neurologist and schedule a CT scan of the brain.
So dear friends, please know that in the future if I happen to cancel our dinner date, it’s nothing personal. I probably just don’t like your cologne.
today’s affirmations (i think i’m finding jesus)
- I will remember that however tempting it may be, falling asleep with my hair wet is only acceptable when I’m being committed to an asylum the next day.
- I understand that the reason my ass looks fat in this terry Juicy jumpsuit, is because it is. I welcome that I’ll be confused with Kim Kardashian today and will embrace all the attention I get from black men.
- I will settle for a pedicure with Patty Melt this afternoon even though what I really need is a shot of Patron and Botox. I will be careful not to text her on my iPhone about this because it will autoINcorrect ‘pedi’ to ‘penis’ and we’ll end up someplace entirely different than Solar Nails.
- I trust that the package of “medicine” I just signed for from India contains Brian’s Viagra and not poison he will later slip into my Smart Water so that he can end his alimony obligation.
top 10 indicators of my pms
10. I almost called 911 when I couldn’t locate my eye cream.
9. While on the phone with earthlink customer service this morning, the words, “Why are you torturing me?” actually came out of my mouth before I slammed the phone down. Twice.
8. I considered throwing out a perfectly good latte because the drive-thru attendant at Starbucks fingered the lid.
7. I have nothing to wear. All 400 square feet of my closet is filled with crap even a refugee would refuse to be seen in. To illustrate this point, I engaged in personal attacks while attempting to get dressed this morning. “You’re disgusting and wrinkled and a fuck!ng bitch for making my legs look fat.” I threatened extraditing several items to the Salvation Army, but know this would never happen since it would involve me actually cleaning out my closet.
6. While washing my face, my fingers ran across a marble-sized cyst that I was sure would require emergency Moh’s surgery by a board certified dermatologist. Turns out I probably just need a Biore strip and not to be in puberty.
5. I bit my lip so hard while inhaling an entire trough of pasta for dinner, I was pretty sure I needed a skin graft. Then I did it again two seconds later and almost cried.
4. I got annoyed with Celine Dion for reproducing. Again.
3. It took me 35 minutes to figure out how to erase an episode of “What’s New Scooby Doo?” on my DVR. This too almost made me cry.
2. I skipped yoga this morning to shop for new boots on Zappos.com instead. Then I had to take a nap from the pure exhaustion of it all.
1. After scarfing down two bags of Entenmann’s chocolate chip mini muffins, I finished off a box of cheddar bunnies organic snack mix. When the bag was empty, I slid my fingers across the bottom of it to lick off all that carcinogenic, sodium-flavored faux cheddar powder. I’d feel less disgusting after a one-night stand.
my daughter: the sweet, sensitive one
While crawling through the Shorecrest carline this morning at the speed of cars on a California freeway during rush hour, I was able to ponder how much more tolerable this is with my latte in hand. Normally I’m rushing to school after a shower and effort to put together an outfit that at least doesn’t offend. But today, all bets were off. I discovered that alarms are rendered ineffective when phones are put on “silent” after I woke up (thank Charlie Crist for a bladder the size of a lima bean) at 7:02, and we have to leave by 7:30. So I instead grabbed Gator sweats and threw on a see-through t-shirt with no bra (classy), slapped some sunscreen on Ainsley and helped her find her gold glitter shoes for “Spirit Day” since today is homecoming. It’s amazing that when you eliminate basic hygiene, it’s much easier to get out of the house with a few minutes to spare. Hmmm. Now I’m left to consider the benefits of brushed teeth versus having time to hit Starbucks before I bring my daughter to school. Tough call.
So while I’m circling the school at a snail’s pace to get Ainsley to the drop-off point where the germy hands of the school’s administration are waiting to greet her and the 400 other sticky kids in lower division (yes, I get the chills every morning when I witness this), she told me she hopes that she will be able to sit on the bleachers during today’s pep rally, and not on the floor like the kindergarteners. So I explained that the gym is only so big, and that’s why the school wants to build a new one.
“Where will the new gym go, mommy?”
“Where the old gym is. They will tear it down to make room for the new one. Isn’t that exciting?”
I glanced back to see shock and horror.
“But mommy…that’s so sad for them to tear down our gym. We have Coach Pope’s dance party in there. I like that gym!” (Just to put this into perspective for those unfamiliar with the leaky abomination that is the Crisp Gym, I make it a point not to enter that gym without being equipped with a hazmat suit and noseplugs. Touring it makes you either want to donate to the new athletic center fund or commit arson.)
My initial surprise by her reaction was immediately replaced with pride and relief. Because now I know that when I’m old and dribbling applesauce down the front of my shirt, she won’t just drop me off at the Tyrone Square mall before it opens so I ferment on the benches until she picks me up eight hours later. When I have a leaking roof, replaced my iPhone with a Jitterbug , and swapped my Abercrombie for elasticized-waist polyester slacks, I’m now confident my sweet girl at least puts me in a retirement home that serves Starbucks with its applesauce.
nothing tests your patience or olfactory willpower like disney
Just returned from Disney, and I’m once again faced with the age-old question that plagues theme park visitors far and wide (especially wide): wash my clothes in the 2-hour sanitary rinse cycle or just throw them away?
Visiting six theme parks in four days is a lot like Nutella. In theory, chocolate and hazelnut should be a scrumptious coupling, but kids don’t exactly fight over it in the school cafeteria. I mean, sure, my weekend featured plenty of Disney magic, wonder and excitement. Like when I spotted the caffeinated oasis that is Starbucks across the lake at Universal Studios. Or when the couple sporting bride and groom Mickey ears accepted my Soarin’ fastpasses in exchange for promising to never kiss in public again.
But it always seemed like my joy was tempered by the fact that I’d get stuck in line next to a British woman with Nanny McPhee-like warts dangling out of her earlobes. Or behind a guy in the Toy Story line who for 84 minutes burped up his breakfast sausage in my direction. I can shut down my olfactories long enough to use a public restroom. But an 84-minute ride queue? About 30 minutes into that line I was secretly hoping the Toy Story ride included me plummeting to my death.
Irritating people: Disney’s biggest attraction
And then of course each day promised enough Space Violators, Slow Walkers and Loud Talkers to make anyone want to lay across the tracks at Test Track. With so many different categories of idiocy, it was really hard to determine who was the most annoying:
– The Crossers: typically they travel in groups of four or more and lack the brainpower to understand the typical flow of pedestrian traffic. Crossers like to make sudden diagonal or horizontal jumps across crowds, forcing people all around them to stop short, tumble or face-plant into me.
– The Stoppers: completely oblivious to the world around them, Stoppers aim to find the most congested area within any crowd to come to a screeching halt to read a map, calculate their body mass index, or ask their partner where “that hotdog place is at.”
– The Roadblockers: a close relative to the Slow Walker, Roadblockers contain three or more usually overweight people who clasp hands tightly forming a human chain of adipose tissue across any walkway or path. Even with a stroller and child outfitted with steel-reinforced boots and the instruction to point her toes like pistols, it is nearly impossible to break through this blockade (the only exception being when the Starbucks at Universal is closing in 15 minutes and you’ve been told you may not swim across the lake to get there).
– The Waiters: regardless of line length, Waiters will wait until the second they are at the ticket turnstile to even attempt to locate their passes. Waiters also decide what they’re having for lunch the minute they reach the cashier and not while they just waited in a 30-minute line complete with Jumbotron menus featured in three different languages as well as laminated menus handed to them two days ago by Disney employees. Because Waiters like to see me decompensate into a fit of tears on the ground because I’m so hungry, they also frequently ask questions such as, “How many pieces of lettuce are in the garden salad?” before finally ordering.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t add the following people to my “Why Didn’t YOU Get Lost in the Honey I Shrunk the Kids Playground Instead of my Child?” list:
– Anyone who gnaws on a turkey leg. Since when is tearing into an animal carcass the size of Cinderella’s castle while you sit on a steaming hot sidewalk acceptable behavior?
– Disney newlyweds. Um, sorry, but I fail to see the romance in fanny packs, foot odor and Mickey ears.
– New Yorkers
– Adults who get their “passports” stamped at Epcot countries.
You can’t live on 42-ounce fountain cokes and funnel cake: I’ve tried
If you do decide to visit Orlando for a theme parkathon and are concerned about where to take a little respite from the incorrigible crowds, I can recommend two excellent napping areas:
– Ellen’s Energy Adventure ride at Epcot (it’s dark, cold and 37 minutes long).
– The light on International Drive and Orangewood Blvd. It is a little longer than Ellen’s, but no dinosaurs.
As far as dining goes, if you’ve ever contemplated a liquid fast, now’s the time. Admittedly the veggie burgers at Cosmic Rays in Magic Kingdom are edible because you can hide their taste with sautéed mushrooms, onions and other toppings from the topping bar. Just try to ignore the people who so clearly are just eating plates of toppings. Witnessing this will not allow you to eat anything. Ever. Again.
You may want to visit the potty first
If you are incontinent or just drank an iced trenta passion tea, I do not recommend riding the Jimmy Neutron Blast at Universal Studios. It’s amazing to me that they have warnings for pregnant women, people with heart conditions or back problems, but nowhere does it say, “Those with bladders the size of thimbles may not ride.” That really may explain the smell.
Sure they boast a lazy river and 4-star accommodations, but who cares?
Because Disney hotels contain enough allergens to make my eyes puffy for a week following my stay, I’ve become a regular guest at the JW Marriott Grande Lakes. Primarily because they have a Starbucks in the lobby. But they do serve a fantastic breakfast buffet at Citron that often is complimentary with your stay if you book using the AAA rate. Blah, blah, blah. They have a Starbucks.
Living Poor Life Coach gives me an A- for the weekend
My “Living Poor Life Coach” approves of the JW Marriott (if not the $28 nightly valet), and that I refrained from stopping at the Burberry outlet on my way home tonight. And, yes, maybe my daughter would have preferred the $6 pizza outside of Mission Space. But the $19.50 pizza in Italy that she didn’t eat included a street show if you craned your neck. And stood up on your chair.
I think it’s even possible I’ll get extra credit for refusing to pay $35 for express valet at Universal and instead pay only $25 for the regular valet (which means you could walk to your hotel and back three times before they bother to bring you your car).
I’m just afraid any earned extra credit will be offset by my $149pp SeaWorld passport ticket expenditure so that we could attend the last hour of its “Spooktacular.” But we did eat at Perkins that night. So I’m getting there.
A Stopper in action at Epcot
Looks reasonable enough
i only wear white when it rains 