Category: Complaining

You Got Sun

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How many times can people point out the obvious before you want to either bite their heads off or say ‘No Sh!t Sherlock’ which I guess is one and the same… I can gauge my level of tolerance by how soon I start counting things. When I start noticing just how many times something is brought to my attention I know I’m near my annoyed stage, soon to be moving onto my pissed off stage. Scary, but true. It’s like counting to ten before dishing out the punishment to a small child. “If you don’t cut that out before I count to ten! One…two…” Yup. I’m childish. I count.

On my 6th day in California I got the “you got sun” comment 27 times. 27 times. Sometimes more than once by the same person, punctuated by an oohing sound, as in “oooh, looks like you got sun.” You would think I would know how burnt I was by the flame red parboiled look of my taut skin, the faint stingingsensation I felt whenever anything brushed my shoulders….but, no. People still felt the need to point out the obvious. You. Got. Sun. As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough by the fact that the SPF 50 I slathered on earlier had no effect. As if I wanted to be this burnt. I like my skin. I like not having cancer. Lamenting and tsk tsk-ing over my overexposed epidermis only made things worse. It’s not like I went for the singed look on purpose. It’s not like I was enjoying my new look.

Yes, I got sun. Now leave me alone. Go away. But, hey. Hand me the aloe before you go.

Way Nicer Everything

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When we checked into the Long Beach motel the first thing I noticed were the signs everywhere alerting us to the fact that the management doesn’t care about our belongings. “Not responsible for lost or stolen personal items” was posted in at least three different places in our room. It made me think the maids had sticky fingers, a habit of “accidentally” walking away with things. This was the hotel “management’s” way of shrugging it off. The attitude didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling about being a guest. Neither did their attitude about their treadmill, but that’s another blog. It’s ironic that this is where we left behind our camera charger & cell phone charger. Like they said (more than once): not responsible!

Then, there was something about the Mission Valley hotel in San Diego that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the broken phone when we first arrived. Maybe it was the lack of elbow room. But, but, but I’m betting it was the rude sign we encountered in the bathroom. I don’t know why I couldn’t see this as humorous. Instead of getting a chuckle out of it I felt accosted, confronted, accused of something I wouldn’t even think of doing. Sarcasm was in the ink of that sign.

Rude

When we finally got to Ontario we discovered way nicer everything. Larger pool with lax hours of operations (when we asked, the desk manager said it closed “around 10pm..ish”). Free breakfast. Nice huge room with flat screen tv. Way bigger bathroom. More luxurious toiletries. Best of all. No rude signs. Nothing warning us the maids steal. Nothing asking us not to, either.

Maybe You Should Drive

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The name of a Barenaked Ladies album (my favorite as a matter of fact)…or what Kisa heard the night of the wedding. Both, actually.

Kisa had been king driver since day one. He got us from Vegas to Long Beach; from Long Beach to San Diego; from our hotel to anywhere we wanted to go. All without complaint. All without a single utterance of “maybe you should drive.” He drew the line at mall chauffeuring, though. He got us there but refused to sit in a parking lot. It was our last full day in Diego, after all. He wasn’t about to wander a mall no different from the ones we have at home. “Call me when you need a pick-up” he cheerfully offered as we piled out of the car. “Okay.” I was equally as cheerful even though I knew my last day in Diego was going to be spent shopping (I’ve come to the conclusion if you’ve seen one Michaels, you’ve seen them all).

Later that evening Kisa confided to me that he’d had enough of driving. He was looking forward to cutting back on chaffeuring and cutting loose at the wedding. How many times had the groom told him he had a special beer for him? I wasn’t confident it would work out. In a family of drinkers sober drivers are really hard to come by.
Somehow we managed to hitch a ride with an aunt. No driving for kisa. So far so good. Maybe he would get to enjoy himself after all. I know what you are thinking. What about you? Couldn’t you drive? For those of you who don’t know me I don’t drink a drop and get behind the wheel of a car. Ever. Not one sip. Kisa is too kind to deny me a glass of wine at my cousin’s wedding. Having me escort was out of the question.

So, back to the party. The reception was raging. People dancing. People laughing. The music was rocking. We were having a great time. Kisa was on his third or fourth beer of the night. A drop compared to what others can put away. There we were, staring at the black harbor, enjoying the gentle rocking of yachts in the marina. A full glass of beer in Kisa’s hand. We had come out for a breath of fresh air. All of a sudden he feels a tap on his shoulder…”Say,” says a voice, “are you driving us back? Hint, hint.” I could feel Kisa’s defeat as he exclaimed “yeah, sure” and dumped out his full beer. I felt awful (as I was working on wine #2). As word spread “Drink up! J’s driving us home!” people began to approach Kisa to confirm. Each time he responded his speech became more slurred and giggly. He was just messing with them, but it was funny to see their eyes grow wide. You could almost hear their brains working, “is he really okay to drive?”

Of course he was. Kisa always drives.

Surfing the Words of Others

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I wanted to title this blog, “write something damn you!” But, I decided that was a little harsh…You see, I have friends who blog. WordPress people. When I added them to my blogsurfer I thought, “cool. a new and different way to keep in touch. awesome.” Not so awesome. Only a few people actually write with regularity. I get bored. So, I started the hunt for new and interesting people. That in itself has a curse attached. I found Frogshake. Added the blog to my “list.” Soon after the words stopped coming. Same with someone else. And someone else. Huh. Started (again!) searching for other words; other people with interesting things to say. Added them to the surf. The words rolled to a stop. Flat calm seas. Again. What, exactly, is going on? Am I cursing the blogging universe by wanting to read them on a regular basis?  

I like words. I like them even better when they are strung together in thought-provoking, insightful, even funny sentences. Best is when they are from people I adore. John Mayer is good with words. I’d read him more often if he gave up the silly singing career and devoted his time to putting pen to paper…like that’s gonna happen! That’s not to say I don’t enjoy his music or his lyrics…he’s just good with the words no matter how he gets them out.

So. Here’s a request. Tell me your favorite blogs. Do you have one I haven’t read? Where do you go for words? I know someone who stalks a weasel. But, what else is there? Email me. call me. text me. comment me. write on my wall. whatever. You will be doing me a huge favor. I won’t add them to the surf or the roll, though. I wouldn’t want to jinx anything!

ps~ a word on my links, speaking of blogs… You may have noticed a change in favorites. Yes, this was deliberate.
Sometimes, you outgrow a life. Sometimes you just grow up. I think I did a little of both.

Lost One of the Nine

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On the way from Long Beach, California to San Diego I gave up one of my nine lives. I was going to call this blog I Hate Penske Trucks but decided against slamming an innocent company when really, it’s their reckless drivers I should be blaming.
We were somewhere between here and there and traffic was heavy. Kisa was driving (of course). Tom was his copilot and I served as a hood ornament for all my uselessness. There we were, in the farthest left lane (in other words, what should have been the fastest), when all of a sudden we came upon a Penske truck. Traveling in our lane. Hazards on. Going at least 15 mph slower than everyone else. For awhile Kisa hung out behind Penske, careful not to tailgate. But, no matter how hard he tried he continuously crept close to Penske. Too close for me. Until finally I, the backseat driver that I am, blurted out, “go around him!” Moving over one lane didn’t offer us much comfort. To the right of us, behind us and directly in front were three large 18-wheelers all chugging along at a comfortable 80mph. We felt like a HHR sandwich. Penske (still flashing hazards) sped up and continued to hang to the left of us. We were surrounded by size on all sides. And going 80 miles an hour.
That’s when it happened. Without warning Penske started to drift into our lane. We couldn’t speed up, slow down or move over to accommodate this moving truck that seemed determined to move into our lane. Kisa leaned on the horn. I yelled. Penske swerved, sped up and somehow got in front of us, then on the other side of us. The driver waving frantically “sorry, sorry!” Sorry my azz. You just made me give up a life!
It’s not Penske’s fault but I will always growl when I see one of their trucks!

Queen Mary Grounded

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Queen MaryWall art

My uncle described the Queen Mary as “the rusting mistake in the harbor.” He went on to say that he didn’t even think it was floating anymore, that it has somehow rooted itself to the bottom of the bay and was just sitting there, waiting to crumble into the persistent tide. I could only nod and somewhat agree with him, thinking back on the holes, rust, wear and tear I saw while touring the once majestic ship. It all seemed so sad.
Even while we explored the ship, Kisa’s aunt explained the great ballrooms were for rent, but the prices were so extravagent no one could afford them. As a result, the ballrooms remained majestic and silent. Decidedly grand, but moreso empty. Faded and forgotten. As I stood in the middle of one such cavernous room I tried to picture the parties at sea. Diners headed from England for who knows where. My grandmother traveled in such style. I can remember a picture of her, decked out in her finest Dine with the Captain wear. I could almost hear the melody of silverware, wine being poured, waiters moving in between tables with steaming plates. Ghosts from a finer era. We don’t sail like that these days.
Later, out on deck I spotted a hole in a lifeboat. The rust of time had bore a hole in the hull and a patch of bright blue sky peeked through. I imagined the boat upon the high seas, the sky to disappear, replaced by dark, dangerous, rushing green water. Filling the boat and sinking the load. The cold of the ocean closing in over the cooling and soon chilled skin unprepared to drown.
Elevators with confusing floor numbers. Rooms for rent. A nonfloating, floating hotel. Buffet breakfasts to bring back the grandeur. Brass half shined. They still blow the horn three times a day. A signal to those all around. The Queen Mary is grounded. Going nowhere. But come aboard for eggs.

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Get a Room

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There is something illicit about hotel rooms. Anonymous and secretive. I don’t know what it is. When I was a kid I used to give myself chills thinking how far away from home I was, how disconnected I was from everything “safe.” I used to look at the people around me and think it a small thrill that no one I knew knew them. Yet, here I was, with them. I felt like I was getting away with something; that my life was in danger in a happy way.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s what it’s like to have an affair. Kisa and I were at our second hotel. He wanted to swim and I was chapters deep in my book. I agreed to read by the pool to keep him company. That really wasn’t necessary because frolicking in the deep end was a rather loud, giggly couple. It was obvious they were in the mood for more than a swim, but rude enough to stay where they were. Discretion be damned. Later, kisa told me he thought the man was married to someone else. It was the way the man explained things to his chirping companion as if they had just met, yet he wore a wedding band. Was this man really renting a room for romance? Did he really have a patiently ignorant someone at home?
It didn’t matter to me. All I wanted them to do was use the room they paid for.

Big Mouth Shut

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ESPN
Game four. We had to be somewhere for game four. I was thinking “errr…what’s wrong with the hotel? It has a big flat screen tv….” But, I know this as well as any sports fan. You can’t watch a high stakes game (of any kind) in your hotel room. Alone. You have to go somewhere loud. Somewhere where you can place bets and you might get heckled. Somewhere where the air conditioning is up too high and people yell to be heard over the pounding music. Somewhere where every plate of food that goes by smells delicious and the beer flows freely. That place was ESPN Zone in New York New York. It was loud. The A/C was up too high. The food was great. The beer flowed Fat Tire. And yes, my husband got heckled. How could he not? He was the only Celtics fan in our corner of the restaurant. He was the only one wearing green, yelling at the refs, complaining about bad calls. And, yes, the Celtics were losing.
That doesn’t mean there weren’t other Celtics fans in the restaurant. In fact there was a good sized crowd of them bellied up at the bar. Problem was, Kisa was nowhere near the bar. His cheers for the Celtics were like a lone explorer at the North Pole – helllllooooooo? Surrounded by Laker fans they soon zeroed in on the guy in green. Words were exchanged. Insults akin to “yo mama” only sports related were tossed around. My basketball player can beat up your basketball player. You don’t wanna come to Boston. I think someone paid off the ref. It’s all over now, baby blue.
When it was all over and the Celtics really did lose my Kisa got up to approach the opposing table. A couple next to me jerked their thumbs and rolled their eyes at his retreating back. “Is he really going over there?” a woman asked me, concern in her voice but merriment in her eyes. Everyone loves a good fight. “Guess so.” I muttered. All I wanted was a warm bed and to never hear the name Kobe again. I could have slept standing up.
In the end, kisa and the Laker fans shook hands. But, as he turned to leave kisa had one more parting shot: We’ll see what happens in Boston.

Free Show for the Insane

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First Look at VegasI think my husband is part evil. No, scratch that. I think he’s a glutton for punishment. We had been up since 4am, been on a plane for over five hours, hadn’t even checked into our room yet and suddenly he’s agreeing to some two hour “presentation” on time shares. The woman that roped us in was a fast moving, smooth talking woman from New York with bleached blond hair, bright circus makeup and a huge toothy smile. She had lipstick on her teeth and a gleam in her eye as she first circled then approached us. Her first words were, “How would you like to see a free show while you are here?” How could we resist? I barely had time to pee before we were whisked off to answer a bunch a questions, confirm those answers and get shuttled somewhere else. I had been in Vegas for not even two hours.
Sitting down with a rep is a lot like playing cat and mouse. They’ll ask you silly questions and you give silly answers. You circle around the cold, hard facts (like price & interest rate) all the while thinking you could just be the cat in this game. The longer you play hard to get, the harder they try. Reps consult managers, managers come out to sweet talk you. Suddenly, you are in the driver’s seat and they’re saying things like, “we normally don’t make this kind of offer…this has never been done before…my boss is going to kill me, but…” On and on it goes until finally someone gives in, gives up. By the time the interest rate was finally muttered we knew we had won. Over 15% was a ridiculous rate no matter how many free trips to Hawaii they would throw in. With NoThankYou firmly planted in our mouths and a resolution to walk away in our hearts we got our free tickets and got the hell out of there. Welcome to Vegas.

 

Guilty of Anything

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Forgiven

There are some people in my life who think that my rants are about them. They take my words and somehow see themselves. Yet, while they see words that might work, they dismiss full sentences because they don’t add up. It’s almost like they want the whole thing to be their private Carly Simon moment… but it doesn’t quite fit. Take Dear Mr. Liar, just for hahas. I gender bendered on that one. It’s about a GIRL. Well, sorta. There’s a guy component and he knows his part. Don’t worry. That deletion will happen a n y day. Nothing more to tell. End of that story. So, back to the chick component. I hate fake. When I was finally clued in just how fake this fake really was I decided to lash out a la language style. Words and words upon words. I don’t know. It made me feel better. Now, if I could just delete her from my blogroll…

Then, there’s The Bottle has Been. People have questioned the consumption before. If you knew what bottles I tilt in the air you wouldn’t worry so much. And no, I didn’t write it about You either- not your past, your present nor your future. Not You. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who drinks too much. We (this different someone and I) got into a discussion about “too much” and, more importantly, who are we to say what much is too?
I have a favorite scene in The Fly. Geena Davis is trying to deal with an exboyfriend who simply won’t go away. Or, more importantly, she decides she hasn’t dealt with the ex in the most proper of ways. In the middle of an epiphany she storms off to do what she should have a long time ago.
That’s me. I’m dealing with things I should have addressed eons ago.

So, here’s what I want to say to you. You are not guilty of anything if not everything. Don’t let it (or me) go to your head.

Dear Mr. Liar, Fork You

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Dear Mr. Liar,

I’m finally onto you. I finally figured you out. It took me awhile (stupid me), but I finally got you straight. I don’t know what made you lie in the first place or why you insist on continuing (Yes, you keep doing it) but, so be it. The good news is I can walk away from you and your mouth and the things that come out of it. I’m through with pretending you+me=friends.
What brought this on? I came across a present I meant to give to you. Pretty ribbons, pretty paper, pretty well meaning of me. It was meant for Christmas but I thought it could make a good birthday gift. Except I didn’t know where to send it. “You have vanished. Heaven knows where you live. Heaven only knows.” The numbers didn’t add up. That’s when the lies began. If I wasn’t meant to be that part of your life you could have said so. It wouldn’t have hurt my feelings. I don’t have secrets (ask me no questions I’ll tell you no lies)so I didn’t understand your secrets, your lies. They were stupid until the truth came out. It must be tough to lie lie lie all the time. Really tough. One thing has to cover up something else, right?
You made yourself out to be more important than you really are. What’s the sense of that when you can’t back it up? You said you knew stuff but have yet to prove it. It’s not enough for you to talk. I’m onto you. Take it on the run. Prove it, if you can. Until then, I am out. So out.

Spread Too Thin

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Sometimes I think I take on too much. As my husband says, I don’t know no. I cram to the point of gluttony. Once I invited everyone I could think of to hear my favorite music. On the surface it was the attitude of TheMoreTheMerrier, and thinking Exposure is Good. But, underneath it all I wanted to see each and every person. Here’s the problem: I couldn’t spread myself that thin and some people’s time fell short. I don’t know if they got mad at me, but myself did. I could only imagine getting an invitation to hang out only to be hung out and ignored.
I’m trying to learn from my mistakes. While I was in Florida I knew I was thisclose to two other friends. I was so tempted to look them up & book time with them. Just to see them and not have to say I can’t remember the last time I saw you. But, had I done that I would have squandered time with someone else. It’s a matter of becoming less greedy with someone else’s time. Soaking up the value of spending time.
But, what about family? When does it become okay to squeeze in time? To rush from one place to another just to replace Wish You Were Here with Thanks For Coming? I’m having a hard time deciding if less is even worth face value. Especially when they say “whatever you want to do” with a sigh of resignation and a barely contained eye roll.
What about work? When does it become okay to not take on that next big project? To not give something your all because it’s not worth your anything in the first place? I sat across from someone in my office yesterday and went over the same ole, same ole. Could she tell I was defeated? Tired of parroting the purpose? (If I have to explain your job to you what’s the point of you trying to do it?) I came close to putting my head on my desk and asking her to shut off the light and close the door on her way out. I was picturing that perfect reprieve with eyes closed and fight forgotten.
Kisa says I don’t know no so my mantra has become, “Never again, no, never, ever, not on your life…”

 

Glad You Think It’s So Funny

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pukeI had another one of those failed restaurant meet-ups a few weeks ago. I was supposed to meet someone for dinner. He thought 7:30pm. I thought 5:30pm. I sat there wondering if he was waiting outside while I was inside doing the exact same thing. Toying with my wine glass, fiddling with the silverware, smoothing the tablecloth with my fingertips, reading the menu until I had it memorized, staring at the artwork on the walls. I’m sure the waiters thought I either had a kidney problem or I was having an affair as they filled my water glass for the eighth time. My friend never came. Until 7:30pm

This week we were able to connect and I’m almost wishing we hadn’t. Before me sat a BBQ burger with BrianFries and crunchy pickles. I was ready to dig in. Before I could take a single bite my friend eyed me and asked the WhatsNewQ. I knew I should have started eating first. After I told him my latest he threw his head back and laughed. Laughed and laughed. Laughed so loud other diners turned with curious looks. Laughed and laughed until he was crying. When he was finally finished and had swallowed the last chuckle he managed to ask, “how in God’s name do you get yourself into these messes?” A tear hung in the corner of his eye and a giggle escaped. I could feel another bout of uncontrolable laughter coming my way. Through gritted teeth I admitted I had no idea. And added it wasn’t funny. Burger aside I had to explain. Or at least try to. My life is one big soap opera minus the orphaned surgeon who never knew he was sleeping with his sister and actually died 3 episodes ago but still managed to seduce the bull fighter’s CIA wife in Africa last week. When I said I was done with drama I should have said I’d like to be done with drama. I’m dreaming if I think I can ever fully escape it.
I never did finish the burger…or even touch the fries.

Everything is Wrong

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moo cow

I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to misplace focus, to break a promise. I got on the tread last night, intending to do a quiet 35 minute tune-up session. Everything was wrong. Wrong from the very start. Everything. First of all, you and your Saturday night phone call. I know in my heart of hearts you are right. Three and a half hours of heart to heart and yes, you are right. I know what I need to do, thanks to you. But. But, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. Yeah, yeah, yeah – Harry met Sally and the moral of the story is they couldn’t be friends. I hear ya. I still don’t like it. Last night I went beyond ThatSpace and deleted the phone number. Removing temptation. Cutting things off before they can cut me. I can’t bleed anymore. You are right.
Anyway. So, I thought of you and your words before I ran and they didn’t make me angry. I didn’t find the fire. Instead, they made me sad. I can’t run blue. So, the mood was wrong, the music was wrong, everything was wrong. For the first time ever I skipped Paint It Black and Have Fun Go Mad. I couldn’t find a rhythm I liked. Thanks to a friend I found Fleetwood and tried that. After 25 minutes I admitted defeat and decided nothing would help. I stopped cold. I couldn’t even rock the Aerosmith shirt I bought while shopping with RT. I couldn’t rock anything beyond 2.26 miles.

I’ve never stopped a run before. Not like that – not stopped cold. I’ve had plenty of other I Don’t Feel Like It moments. But, in every other instance of tired I struck a deal with myself and moi – run slower but don’t quit. Lower the incline to nothing, but don’t quit. Don’t you dare quit.

When I got off the tread and paced in front of my husband he was quick to offer kindness. Not your night. You just cooked a huge meal. You are tired. Work is tressing you out. I heard excuse after excuse and headed for the fridge. Chocolate Moo Cow for this quitter. 
Maybe another glass of whine…from a box.

I Dare Ya

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This is the face that means business. This is the face that says, “mess with me. i dare ya.” This should be my face today. Yesterday, one of my staff didn’t make a deadline which made me look bad. Today, the other shoe drops…with no regrets.
Tonight we go where we haven’t. At least not in a very long time. I’m not sure I’m up to it. I haven’t run in two days Today will be three. I don’t have that Kick In The Azz ‘Tude. And yet, this is the face I should have.

23 days ’til Darfur.