The night of JWo’s birthday celebration, we had lots of laughs & stories, and of course, some time spent talking about various restaurants, and that led to Thai food, and James extolled the virtues of Thai 2000’s Sunday Brunch, and the fact that we are usually the only all-Anglo party when we go, is a sign that we are dining on very authentic food, since nearly all of the other diners are Asian.

I think we all agreed with that, and our friends Ashley & Russell were talking about some similar experiences, going to some places in Houston, where some of Russell’s family lives, and this part of his family is Vietnamese (Russell being half-Vietnamese, half-Caucasian). Ashley turned to Russell, mid-way through a story about going to a Vietnamese restaurant, that was packed with Vietnamese people, and her experience, being Caucasian & in the minority said, “I mean, Russell, you’re not whole-white, you’re half-white, I’m whole-white.” Of course that just sounded so funny, like ancestry & nationality were bread or milk or something, and Russell said, “Ashley, I’m really more ‘IronKids’.”

Dare I say it- they’re Wonder-ful friends? (insert groan here)

Happy, Happy Friday. Happy Half-Day Friday to me! Oh, I’ll still have the whole day, but only half-work, please. With extra sugars.

I’m having a frustrating day. The essence of today can be captured by this: I have a super-sized diet coke sitting here, half-drunk. And my straw? MY FUCKING STRAW? It has a greeeeeeat big split in the middle. So, it was NOT my imagination the past four drinks that I was getting equal parts air & soda. And so I’ve replaced it with one of MY straws (yes, I keep them at my desk), but that straw is too short. Story of my frickin’ life.

Now I’m gonna burp all afternoon.

So, transportation. That will be the theme of my second chapter of my trip to Puerto Vallarta a few years back. The first evening, we decided to go into the city. Our resort was actually in Nuevo Vallarta, and we were informed we could go by taxi or bus. All the taxi drivers wanted far more than our combined busfare, so we decided to wait & take the bus.

Now, I am impossibly gregarious to strangers here in Kansas City. But I was not raised on reading “Cosmo” or “Teen”, I grew up reading “Woman’s Day” and “Family Circle”, with cautionary tales of overdosing on PCP and being kidnapped and sold into slavery and hooligans robbing you blind in foreign lands. Weekly women’s service publications: the true source of all my irrational fears, I’m sure of it. So we get on our bus, which happens to be the main transport for all the employees of the resorts, and we are the only gringos on the bus. I lead us back to a section of open seats, adopting my “in a foreign place” body language and do not say anything to anyone. So you can imagine my horror as Shelley, normally the most reserved one in our trio, is suddenly CHATTING UP A STORM at various natives, asking them if they’re taking the bus into town, and at every stop, inquiring if this is our stop? Is this our stop? Do we get off here now? I am sure we will be kidnapped and sold to a Mexican brothel as soon as we get off the bus because now we have been marked as “NAIVE: KIDNAP FIRST”. After several rounds of her trying to speak to people who did not speak Englilsh, I was clenched-jaw whispering, “SHELLEY. THEY ARE NOT GOING INTO TOWN. QUIT ASKING THEM. I WILL TELL YOU WHEN TO GET OFF THE BUS!!!!!!”

We get to Puerto Vallarta. We disembark. Leading our razzmatazz team of Foreign Voluptuous Ladies (FVL), I stride off towards the heart of the city. I get almost a block, and realize I no longer have Shelley & Meredith behind me. I turn around, fully expecting to see them being pushed into a windowless van, and instead I see them patiently smiling & nodding at some shysters trying to tell them they need to take a Jeep tour with the lure of a FREE MAP. I go back. Again with the dramatic whisper: “COME ON.” They are giggling, and we are marching single file. I begin a lecture, straight from the pages of “Woman’s Day” on How to Behave in a Foriegn Land. Because of my love of the metaphors, I come up with the best: the Blowfish.

You must BE the blowfish. You are puffed out, and nobody can come close. NO STOPPING. You don’t even speak. Look like we come here all the time. You do not care what they think or what they want. Just BE the blowfish. And from that point on, it was a one-word command we all used. Want to buy some silver, lady? BLOWFISH! Maps? Jeep Tour? Lace tablecloth? BLOWFISH!

We took a taxi cab home, and I did think that we might perhaps die, because while the roads in Missouri can be bad? The roads in Mexico are atrocious. And they travel at extremely high speeds, in cars the size of Ford Festivas. But I’ll give our cabbie props for his sense of humor: as we passed a large dirt track that apparently combined racing and bumper cars (for fun!), he elbowed me and pointed, saying: “Driving school!”

I laughed, but I was also making sure we were staying on the same road we’d gone into town on – and weren’t being driven to Tijuana to be used as drug mules for the Mexican Mafia. The Blowfish never lets down her guard.

I was driving home from work yesterday, the Migraine Gnomes doing their darndest to fissure my brain right in two (I believe they were using a combination of ice picks and jackhammers), and I had the windows down & no radio on – just the sounds of other cars & the air flowing through my car. We’ve finally gotten a spate of weather that isn’t torturous, and I wanted to enjoy it.

I was thinking, for some reason, about people to whom I owe an apology. I try not to live with loads of regret, but sometimes random memory strands break off & float around in my brain. Probably released by the Migraine Gnomes. Here’s who’s on the list right now:

1. The Wilsons in my hometown. Granted, they were strange kids in general. But all of a sudden, when they got off the schoolbus, they would stop and peer into a hole in the hill. This somehow got them dubbed “Turtles”. (I guess there was a turtle in the hole.) One night, I was dared to open the window and shout “TURTLES!” at them, and I succumbed to peer pressure, and then subsequently felt horrible. I berated the next person who did it, and the whole thing subsided a bit. But I’m sorry. I was 9? Kids are stupid. You’re not a turtle.

2. The incredibly insecure and self-centered gay friend in St. Louis. You asked me about my weekend and then, without giving me even a chance to inhale to speak, launched into a description of yours. At the end, you looked at me, not asking about me, and I asked you, “What’s it like to live in a bubble, lined with mirrors?” You nervously laughed and ignored the insult. It was really mean of me, but I have to give myself props for such a scathing capture of the situation. In any event, I hope you’re more aware of the world around you, and I’m sorry I was so blunt. But I did drag you out of the closet. Does that balance things out?

3. To all my dear friends that I suck so badly at staying in touch with, for indeed, I am a raccoon, distracted by shiny things off in the ditches, and I wander and lose my way. I am so blessed that you do not hold it against me, and that we allow a timeless nature to preserve our friendship. Your grace is the formaldehyde that sustains & preserves the wonderful connection we have. Thank you & forgive me.

4. To the former boss who tried to fire me and never did any work (BEYOTCH!): I’m sorry that after you gave your month’s notice, that it was me who told everyone you used two people under you to do the research (using company resources) to write your grant-winning business plan, and consequently, you embarassingly were asked to leave immediately, despite having already quit. Yeah, actually? I’m not sorry about that one at all, bitch. How’s the karma bus feel when it backs up over your scrawny ass?

OK, I’m never going to fully lose my mean streak. My upbringing fostered a fast, sharp tongue, and clever slicey observations were rewarded with adoration & praise. I am my harshest critic, though, and that is my punishment. Maybe one of these days, I’ll figure out how to fully forgive myself.

I find myself wishing we had a Crow’s Nest here today. I have a splitting headache, probably quite close to a migraine, and I realized I was thinking to myself, “I JUST WANT TO GO TO THE CROW’S NEST.” And then I realized, nobody really knows what in the hell that is, do they?

When I was in grade school, there was a tiny little room at the very top of the building. Standard-sized stairs led up to it, where a landing met a door, and in that room were dry old books, and a small padded bench, with a white cotton blanket & small white pillow. It had a little window that overlooked the playgrounds. Students who didn’t feel well, but didn’t warrant being sent home immediately, were escorted to that little room, which was called the Crow’s Nest. I only went there once, but it was so comforting. To be relieved of duty, no longer sitting in my desk, but safe & cozy at the very apex of the building, surrounded by books that hadn’t been opened in years, and the distant hum of classroom activity reassured me the world was carrying on.

Everyone needs a Crow’s Nest.

A Snappy Man Eating Shrimp

So shouts out to the man I love & look forward to spending the next umpteen years with. And let me just say, in a dramatic stage whisper, that I am quite glad I’m not celebrating my 6th anniversary at the former employer today. A couple years ago we got logo-branded lunch totes as our anniversary gift, with a “ha-ha” note encouraging us to work through lunch. Yep. Hello, Lead Balloon, are you my new mascot? And they honestly wondered why morale sucked.

Anyway. Vanilla Cheesecake Filling & JWo, those are the good things in life, and logo lunch bags are a speck in the rearview mirror. Elvis, wherever you are, you should have a slice of CostCo cake, man. I think you’d like it.

Several years ago, Shelley, Meredith & I took a trip to Puerto Vallarta. It was a 4-night cheapy FunJet vacation, and it was not only exactly what we needed at the time, but man, we got some FUN-NY stories out of the trip. You can’t go wrong with an all-inclusive resort & girlfriends – even if the “resort” is not top-of-the-line. I guess you CAN go wrong, but we managed to have a good time, if not a luxurious experience.

First day, we got in, and decided to immediately hit the ocean. Shelley (wisely) decided to stay under a thatched hut & fight off the peddlers, while Meredith & I grabbed foam boards & body surfed. That was all well & good, my first time doing it, and it was swell until I headed back to shore.

SLAM!

I didn’t even know what had hit me, at first. A whale? A schooner? A cannonball? Oh, that’s a WAVE. Well, I struggled to the surface, dimly aware that my nerve endings were SHRIEKING at me from my knee/shin area, having landed in the large shell line under the water & received numerous cuts, all of which were awash in salt water. Unfortunately, the shrieks were being obscured by the fact I had ocean water in my nose, ears, eyes, mouth & windpipe. I spluttered and coughed and shook my head & tried to spot Shelley on the shore, to walk towards her. As I finally regained my balance, struggling against the receding water –

SLAM!

And we’re under water again, and again into the sharp little shells. OK. Now I am PISSED. PISSED OFF. My sunglasses are gone, I have sand packed up my ass, cuts on my legs, salt in my eyes, and this fucking ocean isn’t letting go of me. I felt a surge of anger and furious determination pour out of me (along with some bits of the ocean), and I remember thinking, “WELL! This is NOT FUN, motherfuckin’ ocean, I am getting OUT.” And I did, and found my sunglasses, and yet, I know I never quite got ALL the sand out of my nooks and crannies on that trip.

So, I have Saturday allll to myself. I sleep in, I mess around on the computer, I love on the dogs, I have a bagel & then it’s off to my shopping mecca: SuperTarget. Actually, I stopped at the dry cleaners first & dropped off the blouses that have been in my trunk for uh, a really long time. And I got a customer bag so I can use the 24-hour drop, and I felt like I was 42 years old and I started wondering how much starch JWo would want if we started doing his shirts there.

Then I got to ST, and before I did any shopping, I went to Starbucks (I LOVE that they have them inside SuperTarget, it’s like my own little bio-dome!) and got my current MOST favorite drink EVER, a venti non-fat vanilla latte, iced. Each time I take the first sip, I look at it as though it has arrived here from outer space, and its purpose is to heal all that ails us. My short-term memory must be on the blink. Anyway, some brilliant person (probably the same one who thought up putting the ‘bucks in Target) also came up with a cup holder you snap on to your cart. Smashing!

And so I spent an hour roaming the aisles & buying the latest organizational solutions for my life that won’t, really, fix my life, and looking at dog chewies and birthday cards, and sipping my venti non-fat vanilla latte and felt like the biggest yuppie in the entire universe, if yuppies even exist anymore. I got an extra-sharp cheddar cheese ball for the wine & cheese party I was going to later that night (again with the yup factor).

I just might have to spend the day calling JWo “Gordon Gekko”.

Me: “Did Stevie Wonder just say ‘Pass the chocolate chips’????”

JWo: “Got some honey kisses for your LIPS.”

Me: “Oh.”

JWo: “You need to go to that Kiss This Guy site!”

Me: “Nah. I prefer the ones I come up with.”

Chocolate Chips & a Pocket Full of Cheese!

Seriously, how can you go wrong? I like my world. It’s full of tasty things.