Growing up in the South means growing up with a lot of, uhhm, well, I guess you’d call them superstitions or wives tales.
If you have a sore white bump on your tongue, well, that’s a lie bump, caused by telling fibs. Freckles are where the angels kissed you (although why the angels felt it necessary to only mack down on my shoulders is unaccounted for).
A random full-bodied shiver means someone has walked over your grave (because, apparently, white trash folks believe in reincarnation. Oddly, I never saw any Buddhist temples in my corner of the trailer park).
And if your palms are itching, it means either company’s coming or money’s coming. I could never remember which hand was which. Plus, based on my family’s socio-economic development, I think we can squash the money’s coming wives tale completely. Although, to be fair, there never was a time limit on that one, so maybe I should go and check the mail real quick.
So when my left eyelid started itching and getting red and tender, I just assumed it was a sign that some sort of gift was imminent or maybe the devil had tried to poke me in the eye and I’d flinched or some such nonsense.
After about a month of it, I went to the dermatologist. Yeah, a month. I’m pretty lazy when it comes to the doctor stuff.
Which was another funny thing: I wasn’t quite sure what doctor to go to on this one. It’s my eye, so my first thought was the eye doctor, but it wasn’t inside my eye, just my eyelid, so maybe my general physician. I finally settled on the dermatologist because, well, his office was the closest. Yep, that’s how I make medical decisions – geographic desirability.
It was a generally useless visit since I only had an irritated eyelid, and not an all-over body rash.
He asked if I had ever had any rashes anywhere else, any signs of eczema or anything. Nope. He asked about my facial routine – did I use any creams or lotions or eye creams or anti-wrinkle serums. I said yes. He asked which of those options. I pointed out that I’m 41, so yeah, I use all of them. He asked if any of them contained retinol, AHA’s, vitamin C, etc, etc. I said, ‘well, they say they make your skin look younger.’
Basically, he said he couldn’t really diagnose it beyond just generic dermatitis, but he could give me a cream for it (yeah another cream!). The silly man asked me if I was still wearing eye makeup, to which I responded, “Of course! My eyelid is red! I’m not walking around with some red eyelid.”
In return, he made fun of me for using Neosporin on it, pointing out that Neosporin is used to combat potential infection. Not a skin rash. My bad. I put Neosporin on everything. It’s my go to first aid product.
Except for on lie bumps. Do not put Neosporin in your mouth. It’s a bad idea. For lie bumps, you need to drink lots of wine. And don’t let cats around babies….they steal their breath!
Great Texas brisket can be a life-altering experience, right up there with shaving one’s head or birthing a child.
All three of those life-altering experiences played into our Memorial Day weekend.
Before you get all excited, my personal pitmaster-for-life XFE and I are responsible for the brisket, but not the baby.
Well, sorta.
Some of the remnants. People got on it before I could remember to photograph it.
We started the weekend by shaving XFE’s head bald. He’s been, shall we say, follicly challenged for ages, bless his little sparse head. After a not-so-gentle nudge from his gruff barber Dan a few months ago, XFE asked me if it was time for him to let go of his comb-o-hawk.
Now, this is an incredibly delicate domestic situation to be put in. For one thing, I didn’t really care two figs about the state of his hair. It’s never been a big deal for me. Secondly, I couldn’t really tell how he felt. Obviously, he’d been keeping it the entire time I’d known him, buying hair gel for an increasingly thinning constituency. Why spend money on hair products if you aren’t really attached?
I had to proceed very carefully, gently nodding whenever the subject came up, offering suggestions on how to ease into this new state of hair.
But XFE is not a man to ease into anything and immediately decided to skip the wussy Matt Lauer buzz step and go full on baldylocks.
He went from Louis CK doppelganger (seriously, he looks just like him) to Rick from Pawn Stars
The results have been pretty shocking for many, myself included. We were at Target on Saturday and a co-worker walked past him without recognizing him at all. Even though he didn’t have a lot going on up there, the total absence has taken some getting used to. XFE just looks quite different. More dangerous. Sexier, even. And his green eyes are even more sparkly, like Rick from Pawn Stars.
XFE got to debut his new lack-o-hair-cut at a BBQ we had at our house on Sunday. It wasn’t a big to-do: just 15 pounds of smoked brisket, three racks of pork ribs, and around 20 of our friends on our new patio.
The afternoon was hot and sunny, the beers and wine were chilling and folks were getting to know each other with the smell of smoking meat and Calvin Harris tunes wafting through the air. After about an hour of chit-chatting, XFE sliced up the brisket and people started going to town, including our 8-months-pregnant friend Amy.
It’s not really BBQ without pickles and paper towels.
Now, Amy has been having contractions fairly regularly the last week or so and was on strict bed rest. But, I’m not really in a position to tell a woman with a big, pointy belly that she can’t come over and have some food. She did not, however, need to make a big, awesome tray of homemade chocolate chip and pecan cookies, but that’s another thing about Amy: she likes to bake and she’s going to bring something to a party, even if you tell her not to.
So, she did. And then she went into labor. And, as those things tend to go, she had a baby at around 5:09 a.m. (Our party ended a bit earlier than that at around 12:30 a.m.)
One of (a few) recycling bins. Sign of a good party.
We tried to get the parents-in-pending to name the wee one Brisket, even texting the father-to-be on the way to the hospital, but they went with a different, only-slightly-more-traditional Irish/Scottish name. Bummer.
It’s ok – we’re used to people rejecting our name suggestions. A couple of years ago, we launched a very aggressive campaign aimed at some other friends of ours to name their unborn daughter Slayer. We made very convincing arguments on how nobody would mess with a girl named Slayer, including, when the time comes, teenage boys. When the parents-to-be balked at Slayer, we offered up the more feminine Sequin as a middle name. Neither name made even the preliminary naming list, I’m afraid.
Whatever. We’re calling the kid Brisket, and we can’t wait for Brisket to come to Porktober.
I have a weird blogging habit – I hate to put up my last post from a particular vacation.
I guess subconsciously I feel like it’s the last time I’ll savor a place. That writing that last post means that vacation is truly ended and in the books and only to be relived on the computer screen. It’s no longer a memory selfishly locked away in my heart. And it makes me very sad.
But one of the main purposes of this blog is to put down all the great things we saw, and did, and ate, so that I could remember them and share them.
Wait, what was this again and where did we eat it? (lacquered monkfish at Arbelaitz)
And still, I dilly dally.
This post about San Sebastian is the perfect example. It’s been sitting, partially written in my inbox since December 13.
Opening the email this morning sent a wave of yearning over me. I absolutely, unequivocally and totally fell in love with San Sebastian. Especially, the food. And the architecture. And the shopping. And the beaches. But mostly, the food.
The view from our hotel in San Sebastian.
This elegant, seaside gem of the Basque Country was also the scene of the most awkward dinner I’ve ever sat through.
But let me back up. Waaaay, back. Like, to 2012. November to be exact.
We reluctantly left the Rioja region and headed up north, to the coast of Spain. Weaving our way up and over the mountains, we drove through at least a dozen tunnels. Apparently, the Spanish never choose to go around a mountain, they instead choose to go through them. Below us, small industrial towns dotted the bottom of the valleys.
We followed a semi-coastal road, stopping in small seaside towns of Zumaia, Zarautz, and Gettaria.
Finally, we drove into San Sebastian and were immediately charmed. Just 20 km from the French border, San Sebastian looks like Paris with gorgeous Belle Epoque architecture and wide, tree-lined avenues, beautiful bridges crossing the river Urumea, and two stunning beaches, right in the middle of town.
We stayed at the newly renovated Hotel Maria Cristina, another Starwood Luxury Property. The hotel, which originally opened in 1912, has 136 rooms and suites, all done in soothing, cool grays, silvers, lavenders, and creams. It was plush and ornate and just majestic.
Hotel lobbyOur roomOur living room
We had a large suite with a separate living room and small Juliet balconies overlooking the public square below and the Victoria Eugenia Theater where the annual San Sebastian Film Festival is held.
Our balcony. Yes. A balcony.
Reluctantly, we left the amazing room to go out and explore. First stop, Zurriola surf beach to watch brave surfers battle the cold water. It was definitely warm for November (around the low 70s), but there’s no way that water wasn’t a tiny bit chilly. We sat at a bar on the boardwalk with outdoor seating and watched numerous people brave the water, only to running back to the beach a few minutes later.
After walking around a bit and getting our bearings, we headed back to the hotel to get ready for our dinner at Michelin-star Miramon Arbelaitz. XFE had asked our hotel for dinner suggestions and they sent us a list of suggestions. After much research of websites, XFE choose Arbelaitz, which seemed quite innovative. Our hotel concierge made the reservation for us.
Unbeknownst to us, Arbelaitz was a bit off the beaten path. In fact, it was in a technology industrial park.
We had a 9 or 9:30 reservation, which we thought was late enough for the Spanish. However, we arrived to an empty restaurant. Could it be that even 9 pm was too early for dinner in Spain??
We were greeted by a lovely small Spanish woman, who led us to our table in the romantically lit and tastefully modern dining room and ordered the very affordable tasting menu, starting with fresh oysters. Show tunes played in the background (Cabaret, Gypsy, etc.) Next was a grilled artichoke dish, followed by a wonderful lobster royal accompanied by the sound of pot and pans in the nearby kitchen.
Grilled artichokes, chard stems in batter, porcini mushrooms and jus of ham.
After the next course of marinated tuna, I’d finally had enough wine to broach the subject that had us burning with curiosity: where were the other guests? I gently asked the lovely Spanish lady if they were very busy this time of year. She explained that they were very busy during lunch with workers from the nearby technology companies. Then she went and got our next course, a divine lacquered monkfish with eggplant.
We were the only customers that night. The chef, Jose Mari Arbelaitz came out and greeted us, not once, but twice. We tried to convey how honored we were that he and (we presumed) his wife had opened up their restaurant just for us. I have no idea why they didn’t just tell us they weren’t open or that they weren’t taking reservations for dinner, or something.
As we silently ate our way through our saddle of venison roasted with citrus, blueberries and rosemary purple potatoes, we tried to not feel conspicuous. The meal was great, but the overall experience was very, very awkward.
Saddle of venison roasted with citrus, blueberries and rosemary purple potatoes.
The next day, we wandered around the Parte Vieja (Old Town) section of San Sebastian, just enjoying the tiny, winding cobblestone streets. We had no plan, except a lunch reservation at Kokotxa, a Michelin-starred restaurant in the neighborhood, and the one of the very few to be open this slow time of the year (our first choices, Arzak and Akelarre were both closed during non-touristy November).
But the problem with our well-laid plans is that all the streets were lined with pincho bars. We resisted the lure of the beckoning doorways with dark, patron-packed bars and rows of plates teetering with jewel-toned small bites. They looked like works of stained glass – red and green chiles, pink strips of Serrano ham, silvery anchovies, bright yellow mousses.
Our reserve was further tested when we did a walk-by of our chosen lunch spot. Unlike all of the pincho bars we had just passed, it looked dead. Really, really dead. We walked along the waterfront of the old fortress city and dithered back and forth, “Should we call and cancel? It’s kind of last minute. Yeah, but did you see it? There was nobody there. It’s supposed to be really good. I do not want a repeat of last night’s meal where we’re the only people in the place.” (Although the meal was, as I said, very, very good.)
We eventually capitulated to the lure of the pinchos. Our first stop, Atari Gastroteka, was located right in front of the pretty yellow Iglesia Santa Maria del Coro.
Nice church. Sure, I’ll eat in the shadow of that plaza.
It attracted us because it was pretty full, including a large group (dogs and children included) of Spanish-speaking friends leisurely holding court at a picnic table out front. The amount of plates and glasses and overflowing ashtrays gave testament to the fact that they’d been there for quite a while. That was enough of an endorsement for us.
We were quite unlike our delicate Spanish friends, who generally wash down one or two small bites with lots of conversation before eventually, slowly moving to the next place. Our American appetites and curious bellies demanded we try one of everything. Slabs of potato-stuffed tortillas, papas bravas, seafood salads on crostinis, crab-stuffed chiles, goat cheese with asparagus, and countless others were consumed alongside our new favorite Baigorri wine.
We went to a blur of places, washing down the little works of pincho art with amazing crisp white wines. We stopped in at the highly recommended A Fuego Negro, but it was too crowded for us to get close to the bar. Considering the huge array of choices we had anywhere along the street, we took our spoiled taste buds elsewhere and kept wandering.
But it was around 3 pm when we found our pincho heaven – La Cuchara de San Telmo. It was a bit off the beaten path, hidden down a side street, but it was by far the best place we ate, maybe even the entire trip. Since it was close to the end of lunch service (they close at 3:30 and reopen at 7:30), we were able to grab a spot at the bar and had a long meaningful relationship with the menu.
Aided by a wonderful barman from Nicaragua who happened to know more about U.S. politics than either of us DC residents, we worked out way through San Sebastian’s most popular and innovative pinchos – one perfectly cooked bacon-wrapped scallop, braised calf cheeks in red wine, grilled octopus. The special of the day, the pigs ear on a chickpea puree was, unfortunately sold out.
bacon-wrapped scallopbraised beef
Never one to pass up a chance at pork, we asked them to save us one and swore we’d be back in the evening to try it. It was totally worth it. It was crispy and soft and salty and just perfect. We also added foie gras with apple compote and queso cabra topped with grilled vegetables to the pincho carnage tally. And, we might have revisited a few of our favorite dishes from lunchtime again (What? Being a tourist is very hungry work! And the portions are really small!)
Blurry pigs ear.
We ended the evening chatting with a very cool young American couple from Denver who also ordered everything on the La Cuchara menu. After one last ginormous gin and tonic (served in large wine goblets with real juniper berries, naturally), we bid farewell to our friends, stumbled our big bellies back to our hotel and collapsed, dreaming of soft, succulent pig’s ears. It had been a big foodie day for us.
Unbelievable food, great wine and new friends. It was the perfect end to our time in San Sebastian, and Spain. I truly cannot wait to go back.
In a complete departure from my usual blogging style, this post is going to be light on text and heavy on visuals. This is because I’m currently in the ongoing throws of a “food bourne illness” to put it delicately. Day seven of the ancient Incan stomach bacteria that I’m lovingly calling WuaynaKihlPhoe (sound it out).
So….yeah. I have an appointment tomorrow morning with le doctor.
BUT, even with all that, Peru was amazing. It’s beautiful, diverse and enigmatic. You’ll hear all about it in additional posts, I promise. In the meantime, here’s a taste:
The incoming customs form. We, of course, filled in the “other” bubble.
The marital status question on the incoming customs form. We, of course, filled in the “other” bubble.
Guinea pig pottery at the Gastronomy Museum in Lima. They love their guinea pigs there. Especially around dinner time.
A brass band serenades us at the Governor’s Palace.
17 course tasting menu at Astrid & Gaston in Lima. Including cuy. (I swear, I only had one tiny bite)
That would be a highway closed by protesting fishermen on our trip to Peru.
While on our way down to Paracas on the Panamerican Sur highway, we got caught in a protest involving 200 fishermen. We were stuck for two hours and according to this story, the line of cars stretched back 5 miles. Listen, I’m all about civil unrest and all that jazz, but it seriously cut into my pool time and I was not amused.
One of the most popular forms of transportation are these super flashy little three-wheeled cabs. I totally want one. I’m looking into it. I plan to decorate it pretty obnoxiously, of course. Lots of fringe and stickers.
In Paracas, we stayed at this super fancy resort full of overpriced beer and snacks. So, we walked 5 minutes down the road to the small seaside town of El Chaco, where even with gringo prices, we paid a lot less for beer, sodas and snacks. Here’s me on the way back with my Cusquenos (Listen, it was hot and I was thirsty after watching all those protestors.)
Back in Lima before we traveled to Machu Picchu and the Sacred Valley, we swung by the Surgillo Food Market. Not pictured: the innocent looking and 0h-so-tasty coconut palleta that started all of my stomach problems.
Last night in Lima. This was the sunset from our room at the JW Marriott in Miraflores. Pretty stunning. The calm before the stomach storm.
Birthday cake number one (oh yes, there were two) from the wonderfully nice people at Tambo del Inka resort in Urubamba. Amazing, amazing resort. (the cake, ironically, was coconut, but no hard feelings. Can’t hate on a cake).
The slowest train in the whole damn world. That’s because everybody — people, cows, sheep, backpackers — use the railroad tracks as a road for walking on and blocking.
What’s that? Oh, yeah, no biggie, just a freaking LLAMA hanging out at Machu Picchu. There were like, 5 of them up there. CRAY-CRAY.
You can’t tell, but this not-so-young lady is wondering where the nearest bathroom is.
Not to be outdone: Poe at Machu Picchu. I look like a giant looming over the ruins in this picture. Hilarious. Machu Picchu looks like a tiny little board game that I’m about to smash with my giant-ness.
I’m not sure what this was. As we were driving back to Cusco for the start of our very long flight home (about 24 hours of travel, including a looooong layover in Lima), we came upon this procession. I thought it was some sort of parade for like, a saint’s day or something, but it actually might have been a funeral. Yikes. Awkward. I would never knowingly photograph a funeral. But all of these guys seemed so happy! I was confused.
A big Happy Birthday to my identical birthday twin, Shaquille Rashaun O’Neal! We were born on the exact day in the exact same year, which means we’re both 41 years old today. And one of us is wheezing her way around some ruins in Peru.
Since Shaq is my brother from another mother, I’ve compiled a handy chart highlighting the many, many similarities. You know, in case you see one of us walking down the street and your get confused about which of us it is.
(I would have made a Ven diagram, but honestly, it’s beyond my meager skills set. In fact, even making this table was a struggle. I’m quite sad that my pretty purple block formatting did not transfer over. Damn you, Microsoft Word! )
SHAQ VERSUS POE
NAME
First name means “little one” in Arabic; middle name (Rashaun) means “warrior.”
Named after Cher (allegedly, if certain unreliable familial sources can be believed).
PHYSICAL PRESENCE
Standing 7 ft 1 in (2.16 m) tall and weighing 325 pounds (147 kg), he was one of the heaviest players ever to play in the NBA. Throughout his 19-year career, O’Neal used his size and strength to overpower opponents for points and rebounds. Wears a U.S. shoe size 23
Standing at 5 ft 5 in tall and weighing, well, less than 325 pounds, she is one of the most average sized bloggers ever to play on WordPress. Throughout her almost 2-year blogging career, Poe has used her wit and sarcasm to underwhelm audiences for fame and glory. Wears a Texas boot size 7.
EARLY FAMILY LIFE
O’ Neal never really knew his biological father, and was raised by his mother and stepfather who was a career Army Reserve sergeant. Shaq even rapped about it on his 1994 album Shaq Fu: The Return where he dropped the line, “Biological Didn’t Bother, Phil is my Father”.
Poe barely knew her biological father, and was sorta raised by her mother and various stepfathers of undistinguished careers. She has not yet rapped about it. Although she certainly whines about it a lot.
PERSONAL LIFE
He married Shaunie Nelson on December 26, 2002. The couple have four children (Shareef, Amirah, Shaqir, and Me’arah), and Nelson has one son from a previous relationship (Myles). O’Neal also has a daughter from a previous relationship (Taahirah). The couple divorced in 2009.
Poe was married and divorced, all before the ripe old age of 25. So, like, a bazillion years ago. She’s been dating her long-suffering partner-for-life, XFE, since 2005. They are co-pet-parents to Petuniazaquirah.
EDUCATION
O’Neal has a bachelor of arts in general studies from LSU, an MBA from online University of Phoenix, and an Ed.D. in Human Resource Development from Barry University.
Poe is not an online Phoenix, but received her bachelor of journalism from the actual physical structures of the University of Texas at Austin. For seven years. She also has an MPP from the actual physical structures of George Mason University.
NICKNAMES
O’Neal has called himself “The Big Aristotle and “Hobo Master.” Other nicknames include “Shaq”, “The Diesel”, “Shaq Fu”, “The Big Daddy”, “Superman”, “The Big Agave”, “The Big Cactus”, “The Big Shaqtus”, “The Big Galactus”, “Wilt Chamberneezy”, “The Big Baryshnikov”, “The Real Deal”, “The Big Shamrock”, “The Big Leprechaun”, “Shaqovic”, and “The Big Conductor”
When she was a child, she suffered under the family nickname of “Pookie.” She has also been called “Stumble-ina” by her so-called “friends.” And, in a nod to her exotic white trash roots, Poesteromovich.
WORKOUT REGIME
O’Neal began training in mixed martial arts (MMA) in 2000. At Jonathan Burke’s Gracie Gym, he trained in boxing, jiu-jitsu, Muay Thai and wrestling. At the gym, he used the nickname Diesel.
Poe began “training” in the Body Pump arts in late 2012. At Old Town Sport and Fitness, she trains in lifting 2 pound weights, pushing her own body from a prone position, and running 5 miles in under an hour. At the gym, she uses the nickname Ethanol: Unleaded.
MOTION PICTURES
Starting with Blue Chips and Kazaam, O’Neal appeared in movies that were panned by critics.
Poe has turned down numerous movie offers, including, surprisingly, a revival of Kazaam.
MUSICAL PROWESS
Shaq has released four rap albums, with his first, Shaq Diesel, going platinum.
Poe frequently rewrites the lyrics to popular songs, including Jason Derulo’s “Riding Solo” into the much more entertaining “Riding Cholo;” and Ben Benassi’s “Cinema” into the tasty “Cinnabon.” She hopes to drop some dope tracks in spring 2015.
RELATIONSHIP WITH THE LAW
Shaq has always had a love for law enforcement, and has been a reserve officer in some capacity in both Los Angeles and Miami. He was even given an honorary U.S. Deputy Marshal title in 2005.
Poe has long fought the injustices of today’s bureaucracy bloated criminal justice system. With varying success. She’s pretty much the Erin Brokovich of northern Virginia. She also watches a LOT of “Campus PD” on G4, which really should confer an honorary badge of some sort.
ALTRUISM
When Hall of Fame center George Mikan died in June 2005, O’Neal extended an offer to his family to pay all of the funeral expenses, which they accepted.
Poe has been known to be generous to the homeless – human and animals, and donates to several organizations. She has not yet paid for a funeral, mostly because she thinks funerals are like weddings: a waste of money. But she would pay for one, I suppose, if she had too. A funeral, I mean. NOT a wedding. Definitely not a wedding. I mean, if she really, REALLY felt the whole funeral thing was necessary and people guilted her into it or something. But if the family accepted it, she’d probably try to talk them out of it. (You know what? She’s NOT very altruistic or nice after all.)
Our upcoming trip to Peru is not my first South American “rodeo” (that’s Spanish for rodeo, by the way).
No, I’ve actually been to much more dangerous locales in South America. By myself, in fact.
A much younger, poorer, and more naive, Poe.
It was the spring 2001, in what would be my final year at the University of Texas at Austin. It had been a long seven years as an “nontraditional” ie: older student — beginning with basic classes at the community college (a few of which were actually transferable); many remedial algebra classes that allowed me entry into my one liberal arts math class entitled “Math: Spirit and Use,” which I subsequently failed and had to take again during summer school; and finally, eventually, graduation with a bachelor’s in journalism.
Along the way there had been many, many part-time jobs and other money-making schemes to pay my non-parentally-subsidized bills (including participation in a handful of medical studies that paid very well, possible long-term effects notwithstanding).
To say I was burned out and exhausted is an understatement. By that final year, I—the nontraditional student—was determined to have at least one typical college experience: spring break.
I love this picture, including the fact that I’m barely in it, but mostly because Jesus is having a rough day as a bullfighter.
Flush with student loans, I walked into the Student Travel Agency on Guadalupe, looking for sundrenched beaches, flowing alcohol in neon colors, and irresponsible behavior on full display. All for under $400.
I asked about Mexico. I was told I was too late. Everything for Mexico was already booked. I inquired about Belize. Nope. More than $400. I queried about Guatemala. Alas, it was beyond my budget AND all the flights were already full.
So, where could I go, I asked my erstwhile STA agent.
After a few minutes of keyboard clacking, she said she had a ticket to Caracas for $386.
“Where is Caracas?”
“Venezuela.”
“What’s it like?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never been.”
“OK. I’ll take it.”
I then went down the street to a Barnes and Noble to buy a guidebook on Venezuela.
Venezuela is actually a very, very beautiful country, particularly the coast line. And when I went in 2001, it wasn’t quite the dictator-ey place that it is now.
Maybe not dictator-ey, but still pretty violent. A bullfight in Maracay.
For one thing, Hugo Chavez was just starting his second term as president and the relationship between the U.S. and Venezuela was still very much in a “wait and see,” kind of mode. That pretty much ended in late-2001, when Chavez began nationalizing some key industries, particularly oil. Which, of course, ticked off foreign entities who were already operating in Venezuela.
So I actually went to Venezuela at just the right time. I can’t even fathom undertaking such a journey in 2013. Even with my personal bodyguard/human bullet shield-for-life, XFE by my side.
It wasn’t a perfect trip by any means. My Spanish was lackluster even back then, which made arguing over the proper amount I should pay for a death-defying 3 hour bus ride from Caracas to Choroni (answer: you should pay the going rate plus a box of diapers. You will need them since you will crap your pants on the switchbacks and narrow dirt “roads” overlooking cliffs littered with other, not-so-lucky buses.)
The bus driver blared some very percussion and horn heavy music the entire time. It was explained to me that this was so you couldn’t hear the brakes squealing on every turn.
Also: I did not expect that there wouldn’t be any banks in the tiny seaside town of Puerto Colombia (or anywhere nearby for miles and miles). Since I was terrified of carrying large amounts of cash while travelling alone, I was fully expecting to withdraw money for my stay in PC. Luckily, PC was so incredibly cheap and I had just enough cash on me to make it through the four days at my very inexpensive hostel.
I also, quite expectedly, got severely sunburned on my very first day at the beach in Puerto Colombia and had to retreat into my cooler, yet still unconditioned room. Do I even need to mention that this bare-bones room had no television or other diversions?
For entertainment, I even went hiking in a nearby Henri Pittier State Park (grateful for the shade), but beat a hasty retreat when I got spooked by the scary animal noises. Dora the Explorer, I am not.
The state of my sunburned skin also led to my nickname throughout the tiny town: La Langosta.
La Langosta and Miss Venezuela 2000 Eva Ekvall. Tragically, she died after a two year battle with breast cancer in 2011. She was only 28.
But, I emerged relatively unscathed, perhaps even a bit more travel savvy. I got comfortable talking to other people, and became more open to their help and suggestions. Sure beats treating everyone like they’re out to rip you off. That’s just exhausting.
I also got comfortable with myself, trusting that nothing is insurmountable. You can figure out a bus schedule, including transfers, in another language, even if you’ve never had to do any of those things before.
I learned to laugh at myself a little bit and join others when they’re laughing at the ridiculous redheaded, sunburnt lobster-person walking down the street.
Nice cross body ticket holder there, Poe. Just like a local.
Hi there! Did I miss anything around these here parts? Did we go off the Celebrity Pregnancy Apoca-Cliff? It’s sort of like the fiscal cliff combined with the Mayan Apocalypse.
Ah…..I see from recent reports that yes, yes we have fallen off the CelebrityPregnancyApoca-Cliff. (Please stop tweeting pictures of your baby bump).
Don’t worry. I shan’t be posting pics of my stomach.
OK then, so we already know that 2013 is probably going to suck. And be full of fat (fine…. ‘pregnant’) celebrities.
Maybe, before drowning my sorrows in a pile of buttered Pop-Tarts, I should look back on 2012. Even though 2012 retrospectives are sooooo last week.
One of my absolute favorite blogs has started a tradition of this end of year questionnaire, which I think is brilliant. Plus, since remembering things isn’t my strong suit, answering these questions will totally tax my brain, and that’s sort of like exercising, which is one of my New Year’s resolutions (Along with cussing less. Yeah, good luck on that one. I actually might amend that to “cussing less at work.”)
1. What did you do in 2012 that you’d never done before?
Participated in the purchase of a house. Ate kangaroo in Australia. And pigeon in Spain. Hugged a koala bear. Fought the law. (Actually, I may have done that before)
2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions and will you make any for next year?
I did manage to keep my New Year’s resolutions, but since I made them so impossibly obscure, this is not a major feat. My resolutions for next (this) year are to cut back on the swear words.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
A few people I know squeezed out some babies this year. The world now has the pleasure of knowing Miss Maddie, Miss Olivia and Miss Lucy Pepper.
Not getting asked to become the president of the Maldives. I had shoes picked out and everything. Rude.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No, thankfully. Actually, I haven’t had a cold since July 2011. I know that because of this blog. I did, however, have quite a fewdentalprocedures this year, which is not awesome. New resolution for 2013: fewer dental procedures.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Yikes, that’s difficult. I participated in the purchase of a lot of lovely things, but didn’t buy any of them outright on my own. I’d have to say our painting of Sonny the Longhorn. He’s my favorite purchase this year.
12. Where did most of your money go?
That is a really good question. I suppose it went on travel and eating, to some extent. And clothes, since I’ve put on a few pounds thanks to travel and eating. And shoes. Always with the shoes.
13. What did you get really excited about?
I got really excited about Australia, particularly the koala hugging. This was also the year that I finally liked scuba diving after we saw a manta ray in Costa Rica. That pretty much helped me turn the corner from anxiety and fear to enjoyment.
14. What song will always remind you of 2012?
David Guerra’s “Titanium.” Love that jam.
15. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder? Thinner or fatter? Richer or poorer?
Happier and fatter. Perhaps a tiny bit poorer. I definitely put less money into my savings in 2012, which is unfortunate.
16. What do you wish you’d done more of?
My running regime has really fallen off the rails. Also: more writing.
17. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Less time in the dentists’ chairs.
18. How did you spend Christmas?
With XFE and his family at our house. Stuffing our faces and going to museums, mostly.
Hmmm, I did read quite a bit, and not just US Weekly, but I’m having a hard time recalling any ‘favorite’ books. Also: I read and then toss, so I don’t even have any lying around that I could tell you about. I do, however, have this helpful book list for perusal. There was also this gem. Currently, I’m reading this, but I wouldn’t say it’s been a favorite. Maybe another 2013 resolution should be “keeping track of the books you read.”
21. What was your favorite music from this year?
The above mentioned Titanium. Old 97s, always. This and every year. Other recent purchases appear to be Two Door Cinema Club, Neon Trees, Dev, the Ting Tings, the Shins, The Hives, the Limousines, the Cataracts, Muse. Nothing too revolutionary.
22. What were your favorite films of the year?
We’re so busy watching reality TV, we don’t go to movies very often. And by ‘very often,’ I mean ever. BUT, we did go see Django Unchained on a rainy Sunday in Austin this past weekend at the Alamo Drafthouse. It was very, very violent, but pretty good.
23. What did you do on your birthday and how old were you?
I turned 40 this year, which is apparently a really big deal and necessitated a trip to Australia. We spent the actual day in Cairnes and had dinner at this really lovely place called Ochre. XFE also threw me a pre-Australia “surprise” birthday party. I say “surprise” because someone let the cat out of the bag while telling me how funny XFE’s Evite was. Which was fine by me because I hate surprises.
24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I would have been more satisfied with the year if I would have pushed myself a bit more to get out of my comfort zone. I think I’ve become a bit complacent in some areas of my life, but rest time needs to be over. Also: quit worrying so much about sharks and other animals.
25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2012?
XFE, obviously. Even though he also drives me crazy. My great group of friends who want to hang out with me, despite my sharp tongue and antisocial tendencies. Running, when I engage in it, helps keep me sane. And, believe it or not, having this blog as an outlet helps a ton.
27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2012.
I’m going to go out on a limb here and declare Thanksgiving my favorite holiday. Quite a controversial statement, I know. Hopefully, Olivier Martinez doesn’t come over and give me a turkey day whooping for uttering such a contrarian viewpoint. (In his defense, he’s French, so he probably doesn’t really respect the whole Thanksgiving dealio. Come to think of it, Gabriel Aubrey is Canadian, so it was probably just another ass-kicking day for both of them and not the holiest of eat-fests).
“We are for-hen….we do not care about your stuh-pid holidays. We only care about our manliness and fighting over who wears zee summer scarf better.”
Actually, I need to amend my earlier statement – Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday after my birthday month, which is, quite clearly, my favorite holiday of all. I have no idea why it hasn’t yet been declared a national holiday.
Anyway, there are, obviously, many, many reasons to love Thanksgiving. When you combine stuffing your face, stuffing your shopping cart, and all day reality TV marathons, well, you sirs, have the makings of a PoeLog trifecta of awesomeness.
We actually kicked off this year’s festivities with Greige Tuesday. Oh, you don’t know about Greige Tuesday? Well, it’s kinda like Black Friday, except its Tuesday. It’s the day you REALLY get a jump on the shopping crowds by battling the after-work, get-a-jump-on-Thanksgiving-traffic-travellers and driving out to the outlets to load up on Brooks Brothers deals (suits for my prepster-for-life XFE, non-iron button up shirts for lazy me).
This 40-percent-off extravaganza is followed by wings at Hooters. It’s a Greige Tuesday tradition. And, pretty wild for a school night. This year’s Hooters entertainment was provided by an approximately 4-year-old boy who appeared to be the son of one of the Hooterettes and was running wild around the restaurant way past his (and my) bedtime.
It’s always so much fun to watch young women in tight orange shorts twirl a child around dangerously close to my beer.
This just seems wrong.
We’ll skip Hallow Halls Wednesday (where one spends the day surfing the Web looking for upcoming CyberMonday deals and waiting for early release from work), and get to the main event: Thanksgiving.
One of the things that makes Thanksgiving so dang awesome is that we spend it with friends. And lucky for us, our hosts, Matt and Melissa (the M&Ms), do all the work. All we do is bring some booze (gin, usually) and wine (couple of bottles of Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough, couple of bottles of Langmeil’s Hanging Snakes Shiraz). That’s it. Melissa does pretty much everything else (this year, she allowed our other friends Troy and Eddie to bring pies).
It’s our seventh year over there, and the M&Ms always lay out quite a feast – 20 lb turkey, dressing, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, candied yams, green bean casserole, gravy, rolls and two types of cranberry sauce, including the jellied kind out of the can for us white trash nostalgics. I swear, cranberry doesn’t taste right unless it’s got ridges in it.
Of course, it all kicks off with tons of drinking options (sangria, pineapple infused vodka, about 4 kinds of gin) and snacks, including my favorite: pigs in a blanket.
After stuffing our collective faces and livers for hours on end, we attempt to play a board game. This year it was something called Apples-to-Apples. I couldn’t possibly explain it, but let’s suffice it to say, I tried far too hard to be clever with all of my answers. If you have to explain everything with, “See, what I did there? It’s a joke. It’s meant to be ironic,” you are not going to win.
But, the very, VERY best part of spending Thanksgiving with the M&Ms is that they don’t eat leftovers. So we actually bring empty Tupperware over and they fill it up! It’s freaking awesome. It’s a Thanksgiving miracle.
My personal chef XFE turns the turkey into amazing open-faced sandwiches with avocado and provolone on sourdough bread that we then eat for several days. Served with leftover side dishes, of course. They’re already perfect and don’t need to be adapted into anything else.
We had managed to stay away from most-shopping related activities after Greige Tuesday, but finally succumbed a bit on Sunday. Let me tell you something, the Sunday after Thanksgiving is an AWESOME time to go shopping! Nobody is out! They’re all worn out from chasing down deals on Black Friday and Small Business Sunday. We cruised right into Best Buy (where XFE bought some video game) and had the run of both Trader Joe’s and DSW.
None of these people were out on Sunday. Maybe they were all recuperating?
About that DSW: a simple window-shopping trip for casual shoes for XFE turned into us walking out with nine pairs of shoes. (To be fair, two pairs of “shoes” were fancy new house slippers for each of us, and another pair was flip flops for me. Hardly shoes, really. More like “minimal coverings for the bottom on one’s feet”). But that doesn’t excuse the rest of that shoe shopping spree.
It was probably more than either of us would have predicted going in. I guess we were lulled by the ease and emptiness of the place. Either that, or a turkey-induced shopping coma. And for that, we only have the M&Ms and all their delicious leftovers to blame.
So, to sum up, this post-Thanksgiving, I’m most thankful for:
Super clever boyfriends who win at board games (winning phrase? Britney Spears. Nicely done, hun);
United Airlines miles that let us fly all over the world on fabulous vacations;
Chubby cats who sleep with you in the winter and keep you warm;
Fantastic friends who let you come over, eat all their food, stay overnight safely in their house when you’ve had too much to drink; and send you home with a week’s worth of leftovers;
You: Comfortably ensconced in a hard plastic seat.
I had no reason to notice you in your pilling Old Navy fleece
But perhaps your Administrative-Technical-Defense-Marketing Conference 2007 lanyard weighed down with your numerous government-issued identity badges should have tipped me off…
You are a very important Metro rider.
“Metro White Guy” by Robert McClintock (click on picture for more)
We approach the Pentagon Metro stop, still moving through the Metro tunnel
Brakes have not yet been applied.
You jump up and charge me,
Informing me that you “need to get off here.”
Dear sir.
I am not trying to keep you on the Metro.
It is not my goal to keep you from your very important job,
From procuring the funds necessary to buy more cheap Old Navy fleeces.
I, like you, do not wish for you to continue occupying that hard plastic seat either.
I’d actually like to rest my weary high-heel-encased feet in said seat.
We have the same goals, you and I: to get you off the train.
We have the same wants (well, maybe not. I do not desire an Old Navy fleece),
We have the same needs. I, too, need to get to work on this Monday morning.
To think:
A week ago, I was galloping through the Spanish countryside with my lover,
Drinking delectable wines,
Eating delicious foods.
Today, I’m getting cold-blocked by a very important Metro rider.
Dear sir.
I am not trying to keep you on the Metro.
This poem was inspired by actual events.
Perhaps Mssr. Very Important Metro Rider should watch this catchy little PSA from the Australian Metro authorities. The song, by Australian band, The Cat Empire, details all the “Dumb Ways to Die,” including being careless while using the metro.
What is not listed as the “Dumb Ways to Die,” is aggravating another Metro rider fresh off her wonderful Spanish vacation. Dying because said Metro rider hit you over the head repeatedly with the business-end of one of her high heels would indeed be a dumb way to die.
Speaking of The Cat Empire, or actually, cats who think they’re running an empire; somebody needs to buy me this book of poems written by cats. Because, yeah. That’s a thing.
I feel like something really important happened yesterday and I can’t put my finger on it. What was it? Seems like it was something of national importance….It wasn’t my sister Angie’s birthday — that’s actually today. Happy Birthday, Ang.
No, it was something else. It was Election Day! And I voted, of course. I’m pretty sure I would get fired from my job and kicked out of Northern Virginia if I didn’t. Voting is practically a cult practice here in the greater DC area. All the political nerds up here seriously geek out on Election Day. It’s the nerd version of the Super Bowl.
A bunch of really intense nerds like Flick live in this area.
Hell, there were even very nice people at the metro station after work on Tuesday offering to drive people to the polls. Sure, stranger, I’ll get in your nice warm car and let you bend my ear about politics and I promise I won’t hurt you or anything. Let me just wrap my head around this: in a country where hitchhiking is illegal in some places and ill-advised in all areas, these strangers are offering rides to other strangers. Got any candy as well?
Not realizing my PM opportunities, I instead got up early and trudged the four blocks over to my voting station and stood in a long line in the balmy 34 degree temperatures for an hour.
I, of course, immediately decided I hated all my fellow voters. They were too damn chirpy for so early in the morning. It was a bunch of cheerful, talkative yuppies holding those damn Starbucks holiday cups, wearing North Face jackets, and pushing ginormous strollers of screaming, cold children who were not at all impressed by democracy in action. I, too, wanted to scream. Mostly something along the lines of “Don’t you have jobs?? How are you standing in line decked out in your weekend hiking casual clothes with a kid and a dog in tow??”
Meanwhile, I was trying to do my civic duty with wet hair, no coffee, mismatched gloves, and a pressing need to get to work already.
Obama is practically Mexican, so this shirt makes a lot of sense.
But the worst part was that all these really eager voters really, really wanted to talk to each other and share their life stories. At 7:30 in the damn coldest morning in November. Ugh. If my polling station had not been located at a fire station with rescue crews annoyingly nearby, I’m pretty sure I would have killed someone.
Luckily for them, there were candidates and their families on hand to talk to them. And talk. And talk. And….talk.
Lady Gaga coming out of my polling station. Well, not really, but I did see a girown woman in a tutu. I was far too cold to take a picture, however, so you’ll have to settle for this.
Finally, after an hour of waiting, I gained entry to the various checkpoints you have to navigate to vote. Where I was then greeted by PAINFULLY cheerful people who felt compelled to perform their own caffeine-fueled stand-up routine explaining multiple times that the ballot sheet was two sided. Everyone got that, two sides. Don’t get confused. There are two sides to this brightly colored, largely printed (seriously, you could see the print from space), slightly larger than legal-sized paper ballot.
Since it was nice and warm inside, I actually tried to slow-roll my way through the whole voting process. I was trying to warm up. But since the entire ballot comprised about 8 questions, I was done in about 30 seconds.
I wrote in Will Ferrell for each and every office. Who says every vote counts!
It’s always so anticlimactic, this whole voting thing. It’s also impossible for me to imagine the amount of money and effort and collective brainwashing that goes into this whole thing. Just imagine: You’ve been begging for a job for months and months and months, pouring money into….yard signs, and whatnot for ridiculousness sake, and you then depend on a whole bunch of really excited and weird people across the entire country to get up early, go out of their way to stand in line and fill out a piece of paper. It’s really quite incredible and kinda, slapdash after all that effort.
So, good luck to all you candidates, all you oddly eager seekers of school board appointments and city council seats. I feel so close to each and every one of you after this morning, so don’t mess it up.
