Bit o’ the Bubbly

Why the hell does Travel and Leisure magazine want me to drink ginger ale so badly? Why?

I get an article a month delivered to my inbox with the same headline:

“Why You Should Always Order Ginger Ale on a Flight”

(Read to the end of the post for the answer).

Now, I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m old enough to know the deal. When any entity, corporation, media outlet, even individual, boreasses me about something that I have never brought up nor shown interest in, there is usually only one reason:

They’re trying to manipulate me, whether it be emotionally, financially, or mentally.

But what reason could T&L possibly have for trying to convince me that ginger ale should be my drink of choice when flying?

The first thing that popped into my head was that they’re trying to brainwash travelers into believing that a ginger ale is a fine and satisfying substitution for alcohol, in the effort to keep people from drinking on airplanes.

AP domestic news just reported a disturbing number: last year there were 5,981 episodes of violent behavior during air flight. Interestingly, last week Southwest Airlines announced that they are bringing alcohol back onto planes, and flight attendants went nuts on social media, decrying the decision. They think when people drink, they get dangerous.

But it seems to me that it’s the opposite: people on airplanes get dangerous because they can’t drink.

Right? Is it me?

Flight violence has escalated since the pandemic. Travelers are wearing masks. They’re tense and anxious. And many are too damn busy staring at other passengers just in case they get a chance to punch someone who pulls down his mask for a second to scratch his nose.

The real truth? There are many people who have anxiety when they fly, and rely on the calming effects of alcohol to get them through it.

So the fuck what? Let us be! Let us live! Just give us our booze, and let us get hammered, like the good ‘ol days! And I will say that first class enjoyed listening to the coach section getting disgruntled over their lack of alcohol, like Brad Pitt listening for a zombie outbreak in the movie “World War Z.”

Here’s the scene. It’s super funny if you picture this happening in coach from the vantage point of first-class:

So here’s the big reveal, why T&L wants us to drink ginger ale:

First: It was the most popular drink in the 1840’s. (Um, so?)

Second: The tastes of sweetness and saltiness are heightened in the sky, so ginger ale tastes tangy, as do Bloody Mary’s. (Ew, spaghetti sauce over ice).

Third: Ginger ale is an anti-inflammatory. (It is still is when you add Jack to it, morons).

Fourth: Ginger ale feels good on an emotional level. (It does?)

That was the brunt of the article. That’s why T&L wants us to drink ginger ale when we fly. Oh by the way, Canada Dry was sued when it was discovered that there is no actual ginger in their ginger ale.

Should be called Canada Dry Ginger-Like Ale.

Just trying to help.

Spray Me

When you remove something from your life that you previously loved, whether it’s a hobby or a pastime or a luxury, there’s usually more than one reason.

For example, let’s say you like a certain type of coffee bean. Even though the coffee shop is an hour away you don’t mind making the trip, because the beans make excellent coffee in your French press. You also like Greta, the barista who grinds the beans for you- she’s kind, and always asks about your bulldog Harry’s allergies. On the way home you make pleasant side trips- one stop to see your old Aunt Nancy, another to pick up your favorite homemade balsamic vinaigrette at that cute Italian store, and another to the liquor store for your favorite Pinot.

But then something happens. Maybe Greta quits, and her replacement could care less about Harry. Maybe old Nancy passes away. Maybe the Italian store just seems too out of the way, and you decide to stop drinking wine every night. Pretty soon, you’re in a new routine. You’ve found a new place for beans that’s closer to home, you learn to make your own balsamic, and you save wine for the weekends.

That old routine has been replaced with a new routine.

Same with me with spray tans.

I used to be so devoted to spray tans. I’d go once a week in the winter, twice a week in the summer. My spray tans were very subtle- you could tell I had a spray tan, but I never looked garish or orange.

Just glowy.

Sitting on the beach bores me to tears, so spray tanning was time efficient for me. Just by standing for five minutes in a spray tan booth, I could have a “healthy” bronzed tan and spend summer doing things I loved rather than sitting on my arse. And when I did go to the beach, I didn’t have to suffer through that month long pasty period, or have strange tan lines. I was just uniformly tan, instantly. I loved that.

I eventually stopped getting spray tans, for many reasons. Every day I wake up and say “This is the day I start going again,” but I talk myself out of it. So except for special occasions, I think I’m done with spray tans. Here are some reasons our relationship ended:

The chemicals discolored my Audi driver’s seat. My lease is up in a year, so instead of giving it back, I may have to keep it. I’m going to bring it in to the local car detailers and see what they say, but I don’t think they’ll be able to get rid of it. By the time I figured out that I should have put a towel down on the seat in the summer, it was too late.

I stopped swimming. I love to swim in the ocean, but I was finding myself more and more unwilling to go in the water when I got sprayed, because I didn’t want it to wash off. Total sand diva, and unacceptable.

The price doubled. It used to be this nice kinda cheap thing I did for fun. Then they doubled their prices for a package of visits. It’s still reasonable, but it makes me pause now, wondering if it’s worth it.

It became a time and life commitment. “Gotta go today, gotta go tomorrow, it’s wearing off,” blah blah blah. I’ve done my lifetime of commitment, I’m not going to be tethered down by a spray tan booth. Because it gets addictive, looking glowy. When you stop looking glowy, you need it again, immediately. And you forget how you really look, naturally. That’s when women start looking orange, not knowing how much time to let lapse between appointments. I don’t want to be her.

I have my own product. There are some great spray tan products out there that you can use if you want to look glowy. Cheap, easy, and in the convenience of your own bathroom. Just use a tanning glove.

I began to work part time in a crisis center. When you are working in a crisis center with young adults who are homeless or psychologically embattled, and you walk around the hallways sporting a spray tan, you don’t look glamorous. You don’t look healthy. You look like a fucking moron. And you probably stink from the chemicals. I walked in once with a spray tan, realized how alien-like I must have appeared to them, and never walked in the center with one again.

I didn’t like inhaling the spray. Who knows what happens when you inhale those chemicals? I did my best to plug up my nose when the spray started, but who knows how much still got into my lungs?

So there you have it. An old part of my life that I sort of miss, but am glad I extricated myself from. I pass my old spray tan place every day, and want so badly to make a left, but I control myself. Anyway, pale is in, or haven’t you heard?

Mea Culpa

I needed to refer to my old blog post “Mea Culpa” for a quote, but when I looked it up, it turns out I never published it. The post titled “Cover Me” announced “Mea Culpa” for the following week, but I chickened out posting it. It seems so silly now, so I will post it along with a couple of other apologies:

My big mea culpa:

I was never on dating sites. I mean, my profile was on dating sites, and sometimes I scrolled through pictures and read some conversations, but it was never me messaging, swiping or choosing. Never once. I was working with a marketing team and doing research for my book, and they were posing as me, messaging as me, talking as me. They conferred with me daily, providing updates and potential matches. They posed as me on Tinder, Match, eHarmony, Hinge, Silver Singles, Bumble and OK Cupid.

I didn’t do it for meanness. We were testing the algorithms and methodology behind connecting with potential matches on dating sites. What men want, how they speak, how women can catch a man’s attention, what pictures they like, what responses make them interested. You get the idea. If you’ve been on dating sites, you know it’s more of a silly algorithm than anything you take seriously.

The main question we were trying to answer:

Can an attractive, accomplished woman find the same kind of man on a dating site?

I can’t speak for other women, but our final findings ended with a resounding:

NO.

So there it is. My Mea Gulpa. Sorry. Any man who ever thought he was talking to me was talking to a hired marketing professional who was either directed to turn a guy off or turn him on. I got a lot of good material.

Keep in mind that once I gave my team approval to give a guy my phone number (which was RARE), then of course it was me after that. But it was never me on the dating sites. Not once.

A journalist has to do what she has to do, and it’s going to be a great piece one day for the right outlet, and a great chapter in my book. And I obviously would never use real names. I barely remember their names, anyway.

Apology to Expedia:

I blasted them in my blog, in email and over the phone because I thought they were scamming me and not letting me use my flight credits. I had it wrong. I just booked my first-class flights to and from Tampa, and it cost me nothing. And since I am speaking at a conference, my hotel, food and beverages are complimentary, as is airport transportation. So my entire spring break will be free. Sorry I doubted you Expedia, but remember that you still owe me for those unused Hawaiian Airlines credits.

Apology to AT&T:

I hope no woman reading this ever becomes a widow and has to go through what I have gone through getting my late husband taken off of utility bills, cable bills, and cellular phone plans. It has almost been FIVE YEARS, and I think I am officially done.

I hope.

AT&T tortured me the most and the longest. You’ve probably read the posts. It took dozens of trips, appointments and phone calls to set it straight. I begged, pleaded, cried, yelled, argued, to get it set straight. I wrote letters to local, national, and corporate executives, complaining. And it took my local AT&T, just in the next town over, to finally set it straight. Thank you Larry. Our family phone bill is done and settled and figured out.

The apology is for the years of accusations- when you are a widow society does its best to screw you over, in every way. You don’t have anyone to fight for you, so you must fight for yourself. People think you will eventually tire of the game, and give in.

It is tiring, indeed. But Hell hath no fury like a widow scorned.

A Dream Deferred Part II

On an innocuous Thursday I was on my way to an appointment, realizing my summer job offer to work in Alaska would be the following day. With dreams of glaciers and bears floating through my mind, I smiled at the thought of not having to spend another loathsome summer in a hot, humid, tourist beach resort, summers that I can no longer endure physically or emotionally.

I sipped coffee and checked my emails before my impending consultation meeting, when my phone rang. I looked down. My youngest son. I answered.

“Mom, where the mozzarella? I’m trying to make pizza.”

“In the bin.”

“No, it’s not. It’s only swiss in there.”

“Oh, well why don’t you try it, you might like it.”

“Ew, no I won’t.”

(Really loud noises through the phone)

“What is that screaming?”

“It’s Dustin. He’s happy because I can’t make my pizza.”

(Hear singing in background: “No mozz for Tommy, tough shit for Tommy, hahahahaha….!!!”

“Put him on.”

“Hold on.”

“Hi Mom.”

“Why are you making fun of your brother?”

“Because it’s funny that he’s so mad right now that there’s no mozzarella cheese in the house.”

“Leave him alone.”

“Fine. Mom, where can I go for breakfast? Like what’s open?”

“How should I know? I’m an hour away, make some calls.”

“Calls? Why would I do that? Calls to where?”

“Wherever you’re thinking of going.”

“I don’t know where I’m going, so how can I call? That’s why I called you.”

“Oh my God, leave me alone.”

“Ok hold on, here’s Tommy again.”

“Mom, can you pick up mozzarella on your way home?”

“I have a meeting, I’m not going to be home for another three hours.”

“That’s o.k.”

“Has it occurred to you to drive five blocks to the supermarket and buy it yourself?”

“My truck is still snowed in.”

“So shovel it out.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Jesus, let me go, bye.”

Hear his voice trailing off…

“…bring home cheese!”

Finish meeting, on way home. Phone rings. Third son, Facetiming me  from his kitchen in Philly.

“Mom.”

“Hi.”

“I have a question about potatoes.”

“What about them?”

“What are these?”

Quick glance down.

“Sprouts.”

“Sprouts?”

“Eyes.”

“Eyes?”

“Why are you repeating everything I say? They’re fine, just pull them off.”

“You’re sure they’re fine?”

“Positive. If you’re so worried, why don’t you go buy new ones?”

“Buy new ones? Why would I do that?”

“Alright, fine. Good luck.”

“Bye Mom.”

I went home that night and removed myself from the candidate pool. I knew if I heard the offer over the phone, I would take it.

I said no. And not because there is still cheese to buy, breakfast to make, and sprouts to pluck. It’s more complicated than that, and I don’t fully understand it myself. I’m not used to saying “no” to myself. So it was a tough call.

But one thing I do know. Alaska is not going anywhere. I’ll get there.

A Dream Deferred Part I

(Disclaimer: This blog is in two parts. And while the content might sound inflammatory to the lay reader who does not know my sons, please be aware that the following material was cleared and approved for publishing by my boys, as they are good sports).

One phone call.

That’s all that separated me from spending the summer of 2022 in Alaska and working at one of the most elite resorts on the Kenai Peninsula. One phone call that would tick off another item on my bucket list: to spend a summer in Alaska.

Choosing to tackle anything great requires forethought, preparation and diligence. Just like scoring tickets for the Masters’ requires a lottery, Groundhog Day advance reservations, and New York Fashion Week calling in every favor you have in your social arsenal and then some, the process for spending the summer in Alaska is arduous.

Planning to work in Alaska for the summer of 2022 has been simmering on my back burner for almost a year. I visited the lodge in 2021, and fell in love with it. I got to know the proprietor and some staff, and the idea began to form in my head: “Why not me?”

Why not me?

When I asked her, the proprietor told me to start early. Send a letter of interest in the fall. Applications open in December. Interviews are in January. You’ll know by February.

I followed all the rules. I wrote a great letter of interest, had a successful Zoom interview with Lantz, bugged all of my friends whose names I had used for references, finally had a great phone interview with Laura.

“Great Mary, we’ll let you know Friday.”

 It was in the bag, so it was time to speak to the most important people in my life to whom I go for all important decisions.

My sons.

A few weeks ago, through some strange twist of fate, all three boys were home at the same time and preparing food in the kitchen. I made them stop, look at me, and focus. You must say this to boys.

“Stop. Look at me. Focus.”

Then I posed the question:

“I’m going to be offered this job. It would be a big commitment for all three of you, taking care of the house for twelve weeks. What do you think? Am I crazy or can we pull it off?”

They all stared at me, and each boy proceeded to give me a different answer. If you know my sons, you might think you know who said what, but you’d be wrong.

Boy 1: (Appraising me, and nodding): “Wow, what a great opportunity. That’s hard to pass up. Not sure about the viability of it, though. Let me think about it and get back to you.”

Boy 2: (Nodding through mouthful of food): “So go. Sounds great.”

Boy 3: (Staring at me): “What’re we gonna do about food?”

One leading with his mind.

One leading with his heart.

One leading with his love for Belgian waffles and sausage links.

By Thursday of that week I had decided to take it, despite the obvious logistical nightmares:

Getting there: If I flew, I would either have no personal transportation or I’d have to do what the young kids do when they get there, which is to buy a clunker for the summer. If I rented or bought a car from here and drove, I’d have to drive through Canada, and Laura told me some horror stories about that situation.

Communal living: What if my roommate talked all the time? Had mental problems? Was a young kid and was shagging all the time? Am I too old for that?

The complete isolation of the lodge: The isolation of the resort is what I loved about it, but without a car, I couldn’t even go out to dinner, or do touristy stuff on my days off unless I caught a van ride.

But I didn’t care about any of that. I decided to say yes and figure logistics out later.

(Part II Monday)

Baby Ellie

To anyone who has ever posted a cute picture of themselves riding an elephant at an elephant sanctuary:

You didn’t visit an elephant sanctuary. You visited a place that profits off of hurting elephants. And you don’t love elephants. If you loved elephants, you would know that you should never, ever, ever, ride them.

First of all, to even get such a huge and powerful animal to let you sit on its back, that elephant’s spirit has to be broken so he will not toss you off. You are sitting on top of a broken animal.

You proud so far?

Second, if you’re riding an elephant, it means that elephant was once wild, but has been caught, trapped and imprisoned. As long as people pay to ride elephants, elephants will continue to be snatched from the wild and from their families.  

Shameful.

Third, it is not unusual for a trapped elephant to be disabled and old, so they are simply worked until they collapse, sometimes up to 20 hours a day. And you are contributing to that elephant’s tortuous life.

Say cheese!

Fourth, elephants can carry diseases that humans can catch. Now you’re endangering the elephant AND yourself.

Moron.

Fifth, just because they’re big and strong doesn’t mean their bodies are designed to carry people, saddles or packs. Your cute little Instagram picture could be contributing to that elephant’s misery in the form of spinal problems and skin sores.

Sheesh.

People who post pictures of themselves riding elephants are just as dumb as Walter Palmer, the dentist who illegally killed Cecil the Lion on a safari. Called “the most hated man on Earth,” Palmer got so many death threats for the killing of Cecil that he had to close his dental practice, change his name and move. But guess what? He’s hunting again, this time rare sheep in Mongolia. He tried to keep himself out of the picture posted on social media, but someone leaked it. He has received more death threats.

I truly love elephants. I am obsessed with them. And one day I am going to visit my favorite elephant sanctuary that specializes in rescuing baby elephants who have lost their families due to poaching, natural events or human interaction, like elephants who sometimes fall down man-made well or ditches.

The sanctuary I am going to would never let you ride an elephant, or even touch them except during supervised visits. For an hour or two a day you are allowed to observe from behind ropes as the babies eat, interact with their caretakers, or play in the mud and water. There is even something you can do where you lie on the ground, and if a baby elephant wants to play with you, you get lucky and he will snuggle with you, rub on you or climb on you like you are his personal jungle gym. But you can’t go near him, he has to come to you, and this is all supervised.

That’s gonna be all me.

Until I go, I donate generously and adopt a baby every few months, and watch him get the care he needs until he is old enough to be let out into the wild sanctuary with the older elephants. They are eventually reintegrated into the wild, but years later bring back their own babies to visit their beloved caretakers, the way students visit their old teachers and coaches.

Stay off those elephants.

I Heart Phil

Milltown Mel died this past Sunday, three days before his big prognostication. And since East Brunswick can’t find another replacement, it looks like Groundhog Day in New Jersey is canceled for 2022.

But don’t worry, there are Groundhog Day celebrations all over the country. I personally have been trying to make it to Gobbler’s Knob in Pennsylvania for ten freaking years.

I want to do the whole thing. I want to stay in the Barclay Bed and Breakfast. I want to sit in a greasy diner, I want to have lunch with Phil, go to the Groundhog Banquet, visit Hogspitality Village, and Party! All! Night! The last celebrated Party All Night! featured Jim Cantore as Master of Ceremonies. I’m still mad at him, but I would have liked to see His Royal Hotness host that celebration.

(The story? You missed it? I was this close {pinching my fingers together} to getting an interview with Jim Cantore. I got in touch with his agent, and then Jim left a voicemail on my phone to schedule it. By the time I called him back, he had blocked me. Why call me then?!! Who is he to not call me?!!! One day I will tell him to his face what I think of the way he treated me).

What am I going to say to him, you ask? I’m going for something along these lines:

Anyway, every time I try to make reservations for GHD, something gets in the way. It was wrestling tournaments for the longest time. Then ski trips. Then I couldn’t get my husband to go. Then the pandemic spoiled the fun. Now my work schedule is too chaotic.

What’s it gonna take for me and Phil to finally meet?

And scoff if you will, but Groundhog Day is a big deal in Pennsylvania. You can’t just decide to stay in Punxsutawney at the last minute. Reservations need to be made, spots claimed, plans made.

If I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do it right.

2023 is my year.

Augusta

Augusta.

Sigh.

Yep, attending the Masters is on my bucket list.

If you’re not aware, you can’t just buy reasonably priced tickets to the Masters. You have to win a lottery. My dad went one year when I was young, but I think it was easier back then to attend. Now, I think it might be easier to nab an invitation to fly to the moon with Jeff Bezos.

If you watch the viewing gallery at the Masters, it’s like the good-looking section at Tiato’s, from season 10, episode seven of “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Everyone is beautiful, fit and well-groomed, nary a unibrow, humpback or protruding beer belly to be found. This is by design. God forbid the cameras pick up someone from the Ugly Section.

This is my opinion, of course, emanating from my twisted brain. But obtaining tix for the final rounds of the Masters are second only in difficulty to Super Bowl tickets. Keep in mind you can always pay on StubHub, if you have thousands of dollars to burn, but the lottery keeps prices within a reasonable range.

Here are some social media postings about the disappointment in finding out every July that you will most likely NEVER leave the Ugly Section. I feel all of their pain:

For the 18th year in a row, I got a disappointing email at the end of the first week in July. It looks like I ain’t going to the Masters tournament in 2019 either. Oh well. The sheer law of averages says I will have to win the ticket lottery one day.

Losing the Masters Ticket Lottery. A tradition unlike any other.

Bought myself $100 worth of stuff I probably don’t need on Amazon to make myself feel better about not getting in the Masters lottery. Life’s all about balance folks.

Can @MerriamWebster just amend “disappointment” to this rejection, already? Thanks. #Masters.

Everyone in our family has a separate account, and we all sign up using different addresses, because desperate times call for desperate measures. Then we have a contest to see who gets rejected LAST, because that person obviously had more VIP status then the Morlocks who came before him. It’s a fun time, to goad each other to see who is the biggest loser.

I won last year. I was rejected last. Take THAT.

But I will never give up hoping, NEVER! 2022 is my year, I’m telling you…