Right now I´m the most stressed I´ve been in 4 days. I´m sitting in an internet cafe on the island of Ibiza and I know I only have so much time left on the computer) but no clue how much, and the keyboard is so jacked up with strange symbols and keys in the wrong places, that it´s probably taken me about 20 minutes to type this sentence.
Okay, I´m exaggerating.
Mostly.
Also, this thing doesn´t seem to want to read my memory card, so the AMAZING photos (not from a photography standpoint, but from a subject/scenery standpoint) will just have to wait until we get back to Malaga. Unless there´s a decent internet cafe on Formentera, which I´m kind of doubting.
The reason I say this is the most stressed I´ve been is because I haven´t been stressed. Like, at all.
It´s pretty phenomenal.
From authentic paella (cooked by a man out of his restaurant/home where he´s been living his entire life), to a falafel made by a world-traveler who was born in Israel, to wine. Lots and lots of wine. We´ve been pretty fortunate. The less fortunate are those who have to look at me on the beach, since I´ve probably gained about 30 pounds.
Okay, I have lots more to share. Tons. But I´m kind of worried this thing is going to crap out on me mid-sentence and I feel like these stories would be much better with photos anyway, so I guess we´re going to have to wait just a little longer.
So I am fairly notorious for never being properly prepared for a trip. But this time? This time it’s like… extra bad.
Let’s just say we’re T-minus 3 hours from leaving our house, and we still have not packed, I haven’t sufficiently broken in my plane ridin’ jeans (since I failed to buy a decent pair of plane pants), my camera battery isn’t charged, I barely speak any Spanish, and I still don’t know the exchange rate from U.S. dollars to Euros.
Assuming Spain jumped on that whole European Union bandwagon.
The problem is that it never really feels like a trip is actually going to happen until the plane is burning rubber on the tarmac and I kiss the ground goodbye. (Although let’s hope the plane doesn’t actually burn rubber on the tarmac. I can’t imagine that would be good.) This mentality makes it awfully difficult to actually remove items I might need from my bathroom and closet and place them in various bags for transport.
Add to that the fact that only a day or two after we arrive in Malaga, we’ll be heading off on Ryan Air with only strictly size-regulated carry-on bags to spend the majority of our trip on the islands of Ibiza and Formentera. In fact, the only reason we’re bringing a checked bag (or two) at all is so that we have plenty of room to bring home the maximum allotment of bottles of Spanish wine and other food souvenirs. This means that we basically need to fit everything — including my DSLR and 2 lenses — into two small backpacks.
In case you’re new here, this is what I packed for 2 months in Costa Rica:
See that nice, green bag on the left? That won’t be coming. It’s too big.
See that black bag on the right? That’s the bag that’s supposed to fit all of my camera gear, my swimsuits, probably underwear, possibly toiletries, and anything else we can manage to stuff inside. Then, the rest of our clothes, shoes, and my purse will have to fit inside a second, similarly sized backpack.
Two bags. Period. No exceptions.
And I’m actually mildly concerned that backpack might be on the large-side. I’ll have to measure.
So you can see why someone who normally procrastinates on packing anyway might be particularly intimidated in this scenario.
Oh, well. I suppose if space gets really tight, we can throw out some of Justin’s clothes, because it’s not like I’d ever leave the camera behind.
Speaking of leaving things behind, I’m bringing my Netbook for use on the plane and maybe a bit in Malaga, but it’s very unlikely that I’ll be taking it to the islands. This means that I might be sparse on blog posts for a bit, but I promise I’ll make up for it upon our return to reliable internet connections.
That said, I wrote a guest post that will be featured on the blog Simply Solo this Tuesday (5/31), so I really, really hope you go over there and check it out.
1,000 points to the first person who can translate the title.
I always get a little nutty before I leave for a trip.
You’d think I’d be doing real preparations, like diligently laying clothes on my bed and testing their fit in various suitcases and carry-ons, performing a pageant of mini-toiletries on the bathroom vanity stage while judging which ones to tuck inside my bi-fold sundry travel pouch, and scheduling various rub-downs and polishes and waxages to prepare myself (and the world at large) for superfluous amounts of exposed skin.
But no.
I never pack more than half a day ahead of time. Even for that 2 month trip to Costa Rica. See, I don’t know what kind of money the rest of you people are made of, but I actually need the stuff I pack. My closet isn’t divided into a “vacation stuff” section and a “regular stuff” section. (Though wouldn’t that be nice?)
To me, that would be a waste — like dumping out half a pot of stale coffee and buying towels solely for decoration.
In true procrastinator style, I pack everything in my head weeks in advance, and then I pretty much just dump everything into my bag the night before we leave, toss in a few extras before we hop in the car, and assume that a) I can most likely buy anything pertinent I forget, and b) I most likely won’t die if I forget anything I can’t buy, because nothing is really that pertinent, when you think about it.
Unfortunately, my particular brand of stinginess now has vacation prep spillover into the arena of professional pedicures and BZM (Bikini Zone Management).
Did every guy who reads Domestiphobia just get uncomfortable? Are there any of you left??
That’s right. Now that I no longer have a steady paycheck and some nights leave the bar with only $11.80 in my pocket (no, I don’t want to talk about it), certain extravagances like trips to the spa are few and far between.
This kills me for 2 reasons:
1) Until fairly recently, I had never really been a “spa girl.” I felt uncomfortable with the idea of strangers touching my feet and picking at my toenails and judging my body hair. But then, once a co-worker broke me in to the wonderful world of soothing aromatherapies and trickling fountains and music with flutes and complimentary wine, there was no turning back.
2) Until very recently, pedicures were something I bought for fun — a relaxing day with a girlfriend. Plus, when my feet look pretty, I feel pretty. Happy feet equal a happy Katie. I didn’t actually crave pedicures until I could no longer afford them — until I quit my cubicle job and started waiting tables, running around a restaurant without sitting down for 5-9 hours at a time.
Oh, the irony.
But it’s not a total loss. Between small tubs of soapy water, $1 mini bottles of toenail polish, pumice stones and drugstore supplies of Nair, I’ll get something worked out before we leave.
See? DIY applies to pedicures and BZM — not just home improvements.
So if I’m not busy packing or primping, what, exactly, makes me so nutty before a trip?
House cleaning.
Yep, I’m that girl.
When I can see a departure date fast approaching, I start looking around my house — at the small layer of dust coating the bookshelves, the un-vacuumed carpets, the spotty mirrors — and my eye starts to twitch.
(Okay, not really, but my friends know I like to do this fake eye twitch thing when I get irritated. Yes, I’m weird. This shouldn’t be news to you.)
How can we leave the house in such disarray? my frantic mind wonders.
What kind of mold might grow on those leftovers if we don’t eat them or throw them out?
What if someone breaks in while we’re gone and sees what filthy pigs we are??
But mostly, I just don’t want to come home from a long vacation knowing one of the first things I’ll have to do (besides laundry) is clean.
Yuck.
So that’s why I’ve been slightly MIA lately. That, and the fact that I’m trying to plan a not-so-typical baby shower for Alaina (more on that later — it will involve alcohol), edit some photos I took for my neighbor, beta read my friend’s novel, start/finish a few other writing obligations, and complete a slurry of other tasks/projects to which I’ve committed myself before we leave.
WHAT was I thinking?
The only thing keeping me motivated at this point is knowing that soon, sweet soon, I will be here:
And if anything can numb an overwhelming sense of unfinished obligations, it’s sun, sand, and Spanish wine.
dolce far niente.
Which is Italian, not Spanish, but it doesn’t really matter because pretty much all of those Europeans have it figured out.
I’m getting pretty excited for our upcoming trip to Spain.
Really excited.
So I was doing a bit of research on the 2 Balearic Islands we’ll be visiting, and it turns out that Formentera, with its stunningly beautiful beaches and crystal clear waters, apparently also has a “strong nude beach culture”.
Huh.
I’ll admit that I kind of got a little super excited when I read this.
Because here’s the thing. I may as well just admit it.
(Joel, if you’re reading this, you might want to cover your ears. Or eyes. Or whatever.)
I am a naked person. I mean, I’m not naked right now, but I’m comfortable with nakedness.
(Okay, Joel. I could hear your “ewwww” all the way across the internet. But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.)
Joel is my brother, by the way. He doesn’t like it when I talk about being naked. Though I can’t imagine why.
But that’s right – I like being naked.
And honestly, what’s not to like? There’s no confinement, no elastic or buttons digging uncomfortably into your skin, no fabric bunching up in weird places when you’re sitting or trying to crawl into places it most certainly shouldn’t be crawling. It’s liberating.
Actually, I’m just a seasonal naked person. I’m not a fan of winter nakedness because then I’m just cold, and that kind of trumps the whole comfort factor of removing irritants that bunch and crawl.
Fortunately for the outside world, my nakedness is confined to the inside of my house. And there is no naked sitting on furniture in the “public” rooms, where you might find your own clothes-encumbered self sitting one day if I were to invite you in. Although, I’m not sure why that would make anyone uncomfortable since I’m pretty sure my naked self is much cleaner than the majority of my clothes, which are exposed to the germs and grime of the outside world, including waiting room chairs and public benches.
Just sayin’.
So I was intrigued, to say the least, that this little vacay might afford me the opportunity to truly fly free, without the fear of strange looks from my neighbors and eventual prosecution.
Sure, it might be a little hard to not stare at people at first. I’d have to try to maintain a doctor-like attitude of, “It’s just a body – get over it and move on with your life. Dogs walk around naked all the time and it doesn’t bother them, so why should this bother you?” You know, that type of thing. And I think I could do that, unless someone truly phenomenal walks by, like with braided pubic hair or flapjack-sized areolae*. Not that there’s anything wrong with those things, but I’m just saying – I might stare.
*Yes, I Googled the plural for “areola.” I can’t be expected to know everything.
But aside from possibly witnessing some strange body phenomena (which could also be viewed as a plus when you really think about it), the nude beach thing just seemed like a fun thing to try.
Think about it, I said to Justin. We could be naked! Outside! Feel the sun in places on our bodies that have never experienced the soothing power of its vitamin D-soaked rays! Although I’m not sure I could go completely naked… you know… down there. There’s just something about the idea of sand and various beach creatures and I’m just not sure I’m ready for that kind of complete exposure to nature, you know? But it might be fun to try it. Just for a little bit. Because, you know, we can. But topless? Hells, yeah – count me IN! We’ll just have to make sure to bring lots of sunscreen because I’m pretty sure experiencing sunburned nipples is not on my bucket list. God, no. Can you imagine? Aren’t you excited to be naked in the wild?
“Umm, Katie.” Justin did not sound enthused.
What? What could you possibly have against being naked? Americans are such prudes. Why can’t we just appreciate the human body for its beauty? Why do we have to be so uncomfortable and judgy all the time? I can’t possibly be related to you. Even if it’s just by law.
“Katie, we will be with my sister. Remember?”
Oh.
“My sister and her boyfriend.”
Oh. Yeah. I suppose that might be weird for you, huh?
“Just a bit.”
Well then, it’s a good thing we’ll have plenty of wine to go with our nonexistent tan lines!
Realistically speaking, I really don’t think it ever stopped biting me. It’s like a greedy little deer tick, barely noticeable to the naked eye, latching on and digging in and sucking my lifeblood until I can think of little else but the pleasure of meeting new people, the adventure of traversing new roads, the taste of new flavors on my tongue, the thrill of discomfort.
Newness.
It matters not that I returned from a 2 month stay in Costa Rica a mere 5 months ago.
All that really means is that I’ve been suffering 5 months of withdrawals.
And I can tell you this for sure – after 2 months of high, the comedown can be a bitch.
When I talk like this, most people don’t tend to understand.
But… you have a wonderful husband, they say. And that, I do.
But… you have a nice home and adorable puppies and a comfortable bed! Yes, I’m incredibly fortunate.
But… why would you want to leave these things for the difficulty of living out of a suitcase? The pain of getting from one place to the next without the luxury of your own vehicle? The questionable cleanliness of your pillow? The struggle of communicating with people who don’t speak your language?
Because, my friends, that’s how I know I’m alive.
Travel is the pinch I give myself when life starts to feel too much like a mundane dream. It’s a pleasant dream, to be sure. Comfortable. But you know how sometimes you get too comfortable and you fall asleep and your entire leg goes numb from lack of circulation – stimulation – and you have to beat on it just to get it to wake back up and feel something again?
It’s like that.
Like I said. Most people don’t understand.
The good news is that this time, Justin is going with me. Or maybe I should say I’m going with him. Because, as is our fashion when we’re taking a “big” trip, we’re visiting someone we know. It’s one of the best ways to make an otherwise unattainably expensive trip… attainable. Besides, there’s no better way to experience a locale than to travel with a “local.”
We’re visiting one of Justin’s sisters, Becca, and her boyfriend Bradley, who have been living in Spain for the past 2 years.
That’s right – Spain.
They spend their time teaching English to students in Spanish classrooms and traveling around Europe. And sometimes Africa.
I know. It’s a rough life.
And since they’ve decided to move stateside again at the end of the school year to pursue even higher education, Justin and I realized that if we want to visit Spain while knowing someone who lives there, it might be now or never.
We’ve never actually met Bradley. Becca met him while they were both working on the island of Mallorca in the Mediterranean and it’s all very magical and romantic. I’m excited because I already know I love Becca and, based on his blog musings and awesome taste in music (just read the linked post comments), I’m pretty sure Bradley and I are going to be friends.
Plus, he’s a huge planner and Justin actually likes to have a schedule (I know – he’s weird), so Becca and I can just go with the flow. It’s pretty much the perfect situation.
While I’m slightly bummed we won’t have time to see much of mainland Spain or any of Portugal (one of my dream places to see), we will get to experience two completely different and amazing Mediterranean islands, Ibiza and Formentera. So I can’t complain.
And, based on preliminary Google image searches, on Ibiza we’re going to experience a lot of this:
It’s not like this confession or this confession, where my mistakes were embarrassing but innocent, yet they were just that – mistakes.
No, this is something different entirely.
This is something that could be considered a flaw of character.
I know.
I didn’t think I had any of those, either.
Well maybe this isn’t so much a character flaw, as it is a taste flaw.
I can’t believe I’m about to admit this on this blog. My foodie friends read this blog.
But those of you who know me – like know me, know me – are already aware of this fun little fact.
One of my absolute, all-time, mouth-is-watering-right-now-just-thinking-about it foods is…
A hot dog.
Correction – a good hot dog.
But I’ll eat the bad ones, too.
Justin and I decided to go out to dinner last night because our heater is broken, it’s unseasonably cold, and refusing to conform to what most people would do in our situation, which is call someone to fix it and eat Ramen noodles in an attempt to save as much money as possible for something that could potentially do catastrophic damage to our already-dwindling savings account (more on that later), we decided to pretend that the problem didn’t exist and go try a restaurant we’ve been wanting to try for quite some time.
*This problem is much more difficult to ignore today, while I’m sitting here typing with the very real fear that the tip of my nose is going to freeze off, which, if you’ve seen my schnoz, wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to my face aesthetically speaking, but I’m pretty positive it wouldn’t feel all too pleasant.
The restaurant is called The Steele Pig, and is located a mere 25 minutes from our house, which is remarkably close for an actual chef-owned restaurant ’round these parts. We didn’t even know it existed until a couple of months ago. It’s incredibly understated, hard to see from the street, minimally decorated, doesn’t have an overabundance of tables, and none of that matters because holy crap, it’s a real restaurant less than an hour away from our house!
Now, I’m not a “foodie blogger.” Unlike my friends Steven and Matty, I can’t wax poetic about chef credentials and food names I can’t properly announce and why certain reds are better served in a tulip glass because the liquid will hit my not-so-refined palette in just the right place and are you still talking because I’m seriously trying to eat over here.
So I’m not even going to try.
All I can tell you is that while there are some things on the menu that sounded absolutely delicious (crawfish cakes or a fried green tomato BLT, anyone?), I knew my choice had been made for me when our server told us about their $12 hot dog they had on special that night.
That’s right – $12 for a hot dog.
I knew it had to be good.
I waited anxiously with my tasty $5 mojito, and we downed some fried pork wontons that were gone before I could snap a photo.
*All of these photos were taken with my crappy camera phone, by the way. My apologies. I tried to be discrete because I know Justin loves being seen with the girl taking pictures of her food. I only wished I had my giant DSLR to take better photos…
But then – then – came this:
A giant, delicious, 100% beef (I think) dog on an egg bun topped with incredibly tender pulled pork and homemade coleslaw with my choice of either a traditional red barbecue sauce or a North Carolina vinegar-based sauce.
Oh. My. God.
I had to eat this with a fork.
It was also served with homemade applesauce and incredible herb and garlic fries.
Heaven.
In fact, I think I’m going to go devour the other half right now before I go in search of a warm place (maybe a bookstore?) to spend the afternoon.
Let’s hope the heater fixer guy has good – and not expensive – news, shall we?
You know… Omaha Steaks. The Cornhuskers. Wait, they’re in Lincoln. But Omaha has the College World Series. And umm… Omaha Steaks.
My family moved here when I was in seventh grade, but we (my mother, father and sister), have each since scattered to stake claims in other states across this vast country. My mom is currently conquering the arid, rugged, natural beauty of the west; my dad is likely freezing his nuts off in the frigid north; my sister’s getting sun-drunk on the sandy surface of our southernmost beaches; and I’ve been hugging tight to the east coast for quite some time now.
Justin’s family, on the other hand, is still here. His parents were born here (or thereabouts), and many of his siblings will likely stay here and raise their own kids here and their kids will probably grow up to raise their own kids here as well.
It’s that kind of place.
It eats families like mine alive, but the strong ones – the ones with a backbone and the will to survive – tend to thrive in a place like this.
You know what I forgot until I came back? Everybody here is all cornfed and happy. They’re polite. Seriously. You’d be hard-pressed to find a rude Nebraskan. And Omaha is positively exploding with culture. It may take a while for the trends to get here, but once they do, the citizens are not deprived. Even the vast suburban expanses are peppered with strip malls and commercial developments offering every convenience imaginable, from sushi and pad Thai to acupuncture and pedicures. You can usually find what you crave within a fifteen minute drive.
The homes are huge.
It’s truly the epitome of the typical American Dream.
I’ll let you decide whether that’s a good or a bad thing.
But I will tell you that for me, just for today, it was a good thing. Because I had a craving. A craving that could only be filled by a restaurant franchise found here in Nebraska, with maybe one or two that have wandered into a couple of the surrounding states.
Yes, it’s fast-food. But I’m still in full-on Christmas Vacation binge mode and you can’t make me feel guilty. I won’t let you.
And this, my friends, was pure indulgence.
Picture, if you will, a fluffy pastry pocket. Warm, doughy, and baked to perfection. The pastry pocket is stuffed with a variety of ground beef, cheeses, and any other ingredient they have available whose taste you wish to explore. Today for me, it was a lovely mushroom and swiss combination.
And the fries? Crinkled perfection.
This is a Runza sandwich. (For some reason mine was split down the side instead of the traditional pocket. If any native Omaha-ans are reading this, could you please explain this phenomenon? Is this a new thing they’re doing, or is it some freakish accident unwittingly prescribed to my sandwich by a knife-wielding Runza kitchen newbie?)
If you ever find yourself inexplicably wandering around this flat state I once called home, you simply must go find yourself a Runza restaurant and buy a Runza sandwich.
Then you must eat it.
But now that the Runza is safely (I hope) making its way through my digestive tract, I’m discovering there’s not much else here for me. To Justin, this is still home – the place that fills him with feelings of nostalgia and warmth and recognition every time he returns. His parents still live in the home in which he grew up. The familiar smells of his dad’s cooking are still found in the same kitchen; the lighthearted sound of his mom’s laugh is still found in the same halls.
If this is something you have, then you know what I’m talking about. If this is something you don’t have, then you really know what I’m talking about. Missing something you can’t get back is a bit harder than missing something you can. And it’s a hell of a lot harder than missing something you never had.
I lose a little interest here every time I come. I never drive past my old house. I don’t visit the same bars or restaurants. I don’t see anyone from high school. My phone doesn’t ring anymore when I’m in town.
Is that strange? Or is that healthy moving on?
I don’t know how I feel about it anymore.
I don’t feel about it anymore.
In their song so aptly called Omaha, I think the Counting Crows said it best about this place that to me, once felt like the center of the universe – a thriving fairground with bright lights and brand new roller coasters and the best funnel cakes in three states but has since, only in my mind, turned to a state of dilapidated neglect and disrepair:
I think you better turn your ticket in And get your money back at the door.
I’m supposed to be getting ready for holiday festivities and travel. I’m supposed to be doing laundry so I actually have clean garments to sport in front of family and friends who aren’t accustomed to the grime-encrusted Katie I learned to be comfortable with while living in Costa Rica. I’m supposed to be cleaning my house because I have this freakish NEED to come home to a clean house after I leave for a bit so I’m less tempted to just dump my crap all over the floor. (And if someone were to break in while I’m gone, it would be so embarrassing for him to see what slobs we are. Not that we have anything worth stealing. Unless you like framed personal photos and broken electronics.)
So what am I doing instead? Why, perusing Facebook, my favorite blogs, and writing this post, of course. While sitting in front of the fire. It’s too cold to work!
Whine.
I miss Costa Rica.
Whine.
I miss Florida.
Wine – I mean Whine.
Aside from the first rainy day, the weather was perfect in south Florida. It was so nice to get out of the house and do some of my favorite things – things having anything to do with socializing with strangers I don’t need to impress, relaxing with an excellent draft while listing to live music (by the way, I definitely found a local Miami band whose sound I really enjoyed – Gluttonous Feast), tasting new kinds of food, and finding new appreciation for nature and the beauty that’s always surrounding us.
Oh, and I got to see Christmas with palm trees.
This is Gluttonous Feast. Kinda jazzy, chill… pretty much perfect for my mood that night.
Took this photo with my phone.
We also hit the Hard Rock Casino. My sister was so excited when she stuck $1 into a machine and $20 came out. I was less thrilled when I stuck $5 in a machine and $0 came out.
But that didn’t stop me from playing the giant guitar.
I wasn’t as good as Gluttonous Feast.
But I think my favorite part of the entire trip was our visit to the Everglades National Park.
There were lots of turtles…
And some really groovy birds…
And gators.
Oh yes, there were gators.
Grinning, sunbathing, apparently Florida sun-drunk gators who – thank God – were only too happy to pose for pictures without biting my face off.
Did I ever tell you that I used to catch alligators as part of my job when I worked for the Air Force in Georgia? No? Well I did. But I’ll admit I felt a little less comfortable this time without any equipment or the people who did all the actual gator-catching work along with me (Hey guys, I know you read this sometimes!).
We couldn’t have asked for better weather to enjoy the trails and explore the park…
And pose for silly photo-ops.
Even though it was a little cool outside, we still made sure we hit the beach.
The beach had crack.
And we tested our athleticism by going kayaking.
We may or may not have knocked over a directional sign and gotten lost.
The park guide may or may not have had to get on his boat to come find us.
We may or may not have been covered in river muck.
But in the end, we emerged triumphant.
And only a little sore.
Before I left Florida, my sister took me to a bar and forced me to eat fried Oreos.
That’s right – Oreos battered and deep-fried and served with ice cream and a rich chocolate drizzle. You know, because they weren’t rich enough.
Blurry picture taken with my phone.
They were so gross.
But so good.
Much like I probably would have tasted to this gator.
*It’s pertinent to note that I typed this yesterday while on the plane to Miami. You’ll see why this is pertinent in a minute.
But before I get to the story, I’m gonna talk a little about my new Kindle. Go ahead and skip down to point #4 if you want to get straight to the story.
Remember how I told you I won that Kindle at the Christmas party? If you’re not sure what a Kindle is, I’m sure you’re not alone – I had only a vague idea before I owned one of my very own, and I wasn’t even sure it was something I’d want until it was something I had. It’s basically a flat, lightweight electronic reading device. You can buy and download books from Amazon.com, and an instant later it’s magically uploaded to the Kindle. The screen is not bright like a computer. It’s strange and wondrous and for the most part, I like it. Especially for travel.
Except also not.
Because while it makes it easy to carry about ten-gagillion books with you while weighing next to nothing, it does have a few notable downsides:
1. You have to turn off all electronic devices while the plane is taking off and landing. I like to read while the plane is taking off and landing. A Kindle is an electronic device.
2. Buying electronic books doesn’t save you a considerable amount of money. I’ve noticed they’re a few dollars less than brand new ink-on-paper books on Amazon, but you can actually find the used ink-on-paper books for less than an electronic book. Also, as far as I can tell, I can’t loan my electronic books to my friends. I suppose this could be a good thing if your friends like to steal your books, but I figured it was worth mentioning.
3. No one can see the title of the book you’re reading. Of course, in some cases this could probably save you considerable embarrassment if you’re reading something like The Gossip Girl series (it’s a vice, don’t judge). But when you feel like you’re reading something that makes you look intelligent, you want people to notice, you know? You want people to look at you and say, “Oooh. She’s reading Sophie’s Choice. I heard that’s a doozy. She must be really intelligent.” What’s more, letting people see the title of your book could also save you from embarrassment (see point 4).
4. Story time. I was sitting at my gate in the Raleigh airport waiting for my flight to board, when this very pleasant-looking Indian woman (dot, not feather) walked up with her bags on a cart and sat down next to me. She looked a little lonely, so we chatted awhile until we reached that inevitable point of conversation between most strangers when we ran out of things to say. So I pulled the Kindle out of my bag, turned it on, and asked her whether she’d ever used one. See, she travels quite frequently for her job, and I hadn’t yet fully learned the downsides of traveling with a Kindle. So far I’d been pretty thrilled with it.
She said she’d never used one, so I handed it to her so she could take a closer look.
And here’s where it gets dicey.
What I forgot is that I had recently started reading, Breakfast of Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut.
What I forgot is that the Kindle opens to the page where you last left off.
What I forgot is that on the page I’d last read, Kurt (we’ve been on a first-name basis since I read and fell in love with his short story Harrison Bergeron in the 8th grade) was talking explicitly about womens’ panties and the body parts found therein.
And, my friends, what I forgot is that there were illustrations.
That’s right. The friendly woman who had just expressed that she thought I was one of the nicest people she’d ever met in an airport, found herself, quite surprisingly, face-to-bush when I handed her my Kindle.
Luckily, the drawing looked more like a tree than a vag.
I think. (Although my sister and her roommate have since confirmed that it does, in fact, look like a vag.)
I hope she didn’t read anything before I snatched it back from her. (I realize that snatched is a poor choice of words to use here, considering the context, but it’s already there and I can’t, for some reason, bring myself to delete it. Mature, Katie.) But I hope she didn’t read anything because the text really wouldn’t have helped my case.
The only thing that would have helped my case is a clearly visible book title, my friends – a title that proved I was reading a novel by one of the most renowned authors of our time – not a smutty porn book with illustrations that appeared to be drawn by crayon-wielding children, for crying out loud. Children who like to draw vaginas. (Not that there’s anything wrong with smutty porn. Not at all. In fact, smutty porn is a perfectly healthy way to indulge your fantasies, in my humble opinion. It just doesn’t necessarily belong in an airport, you know?)
As I type this, I’m sitting in the window seat on the plane and I have what appears to be a 15 or 16 year old boy sitting next to me, and his mother is sitting next to him. I hope he’s not reading over my shoulder. Damn, why can’t I read or write something appropriate for nosy onlookers?
I want to continue reading Breakfast of Champions, but all of the asshole drawings, which look something like this: * and take up two-thirds of the Kindle screen, might attract my seat mate’s attention even more than this lil’ blog post. But you know, I guess wouldn’t be too embarrassed if he did read what I’m writing, because his mom is reading, What Your Son Isn’t Telling You: Unlocking the World of Teen Boys right in front of him. And that, to me, is more embarrassing than an innocent asshole illustration or two.
And now I realize: I wouldn’t be judging her if she were using a Kindle.
This post is about painting. And Florida. But not about painting in Florida, because that would be silly.
I’m leaving tomorrow for some much-needed sister love in Miami. As evidenced by the pasty, translucent skin of my underarm in the above photo, my sister isn’t the only one I’m craving to see. Oh Sun, how I’ve missed you! My Costa Rica tan lines are but a faint shadow of their former selves. I look outside my window and everything is gray. I need your vibrancy and colors back in my life.
But more on that in a minute.
First, I must dispel a vicious lie – a lie that’s been portrayed to innocent HGTV viewers over, and over and over again. Even if you don’t watch HGTV, it’s likely you’re still a victim of this heinous untruth, because it’s often unwittingly spread by various self-proclaimed home improvement experts (aka. people who watch HGTV on a regular basis) to their unsuspecting friends and family.
And here it is, the thing you’re likely to hear at least once during any given hour of HGTV viewing:
Painting a room in your home is one of the EASIEST and LEAST EXPENSIVE things you can do to improve its aesthetic and value. Oh, and don’t worry if you paint the room and hate the color, because guess what? You can always paint it AGAIN! Yippee!!
I just have one thing to say: Clearly, anyone who can speak these words with any type of honest conviction has never painted an entire room by him/herself.
Okay, I have more than one thing to say, so I’m just gonna say it. Painting takes work, my friends. It takes foresight, furniture removal, special tools, patience, and often a certain type of meticulous skill for which most people are unprepared because they’re continuously lied to about just how easy it is!
And inexpensive? Not really. You need to invest in decent brushes that won’t expel bristles into your paint, paint that properly cooperates with your walls, painter’s tape (if you don’t trust yourself to cleanly cut-in without getting paint on your trim), drop cloths (if you don’t trust yourself not to spill), a roller tray, and rollers. Depending on the size of your room, all of this can add up.
And unless you have a painting buddy, it takes a bit of time and can be difficult to stay motivated.
Quick note about the above photo: Clearly, I have no concern about using a drop cloth because that carpet needs to be replaced anyway. And that weird beige thing my dog is sitting on? That’s the wingless, legless, headless remains of a rubber chicken. And the purple bits scattered around the floor? Let’s just say the rubber duck fared even worse than the chicken.
Have I thoroughly discouraged you from painting yet? Okay, I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention. If it’s any consolation, I’ve painted most of the rooms in our house (Justin does the ceilings – lucky guy). It’s totally doable. I’m just tired of seeing people go into the project with unrealistic expectations.
When I get back from Miami, I’ll write up a nice little post about some of the painting tricks I’ve learned over the past few years. When you know what you’re doing, the task isn’t terribly daunting. And with the proper skill, you can save a bit of money on supplies. BUT, if you’re anything like me, you still wouldn’t exactly call it fun.
It’s been over a year since I visited Kelly, and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this trip.
Last time I rode a boat.
And looked at Christmas lights.
And almost got in a fight with a feisty Latina. I don’t care how old you are – cutting in line is simply not cool. But that’s a story for another time.
Who knows what Miami has in store for me this year? All I know is there will be drinks. There will be music. And there will be CAKE, because my baby sister is turning 24!
