Polar Opposites

How about that polar vortex, huh? It’s my fault.

I made some mistakes. Minor ones. I returned from Florida and it was 65 degrees, so I did my first winter to spring fashion closet switch. You know, pushing fleece and sweaters to the back of shelves, and putting linen and knit skirts to the front. Storing boots away and bringing out sling-backs and open-toed sandals.

Usually I don’t do my first switch until Easter weekend, but I had a touch of spring fever, what can I tell you? It was impetuous and the weather gods had a good laugh by striking us down with some cold weather. I loved it, though. Refreshing.

And I got excited because my first duck couple has returned for the spring. If you are new to my blog, let me fill you in: Mr. and Mrs. Duck have been returning every spring to hang out under my bird feeders and eat cracked corn and sunflower seeds. This will be their eleventh year, and I chart their return on my calendar. But the ducks who have arrived early are not the original Mr. and Mrs. Duck. This couple is skittish, and fly away if I even look at them.

Mr. and Mrs. Duck are not afraid of me, and they respond to the baby voice I use when I go into the house to get them corn. Sometimes they stand on my front stoop and look into the house, waiting for their treat.

I’m sure they’re on their way.

Five more things you can do to make sure the opposite happens:

If you take a bath, the phone or the doorbell will ring.

If you splurge on something you want, like an outfit or a big dinner, the next day your dryer or your car will break down.

If you accept an invitation to something you really want to go to, like a concert or a long weekend, work or family problems will crop up and try to prevent you from attending.

If you are working on an arduous project, like cleaning out your garage, the SECOND you finish your child will arrive home saying, “Can I help?”

If you are listening to your favorite song on your playlist through your car Bluetooth, you will receive an important phone call, drowning out your favorite part and forcing you to start it over.

It be like that.

Mamma Mia!

On a lark, I re-watched “Mamma Mia!” over the weekend, to try and figure out what I missed the first time.

The first time was in 2019 on a girls’ weekend in the Adirondacks. Three of us were staying in our friend’s vacation home, and after dinner and drinks, we were playing cards and discussing ABBA.

“I love ABBA,” I remember saying. “Why are ABBA fans ashamed to admit they’re ABBA fans?”

My friends commented that if I love ABBA, I must have LOVED “Mamma Mia.”

The words “I’ve never seen it” were still hanging in the air, and they were putting the DVD in and telling me to get comfortable for one of the best movies I would ever see.

I hated it, and I’m pretty sure I fell asleep before the end. My friends could not believe it- they had never met anyone who didn’t like “Mamma Mia!” Neither had I. Last semester my students had to write an essay about an influential movie in their lives, and the first essay I picked up was about “Mamma Mia!”

“Mamma Mia!”? Influential?

I can’t believe I didn’t like it either. All signs pointed towards it being my kind of movie:

Cast: Meryl, Pierce, Colin, Christine, Amanda? TRACEY ULLMAN? What’s not to like? I mean, beside Meryl’s singing, of course.

Setting: The Greek islands are just otherworldly. Greece is next on my travel list.

Music: I mentioned ABBA. They’re just so….good.

Themes: Weddings. Mothers and daughters. Fathers and daughters. Tans and sun-bleached hair. Mid-life crises. Gorgeous, sexual middle-aged men and women.

So I re-watched it. Maybe it was my mood that first night. But nope. Just as bad and boring. I even looked up some reviews, to figure out where I was going wrong:

Mamma Mia! is the kind of story we’re always told doesn’t exist anymore: It’s driven by women and unabashed girliness; the men are set dressing while the protagonist is an older woman. It practically gallops towards its badness in places and makes you love it as a result; it’s a rom-com where women aren’t saved or positioned as prizes to be one (sic) by strutting dicks; indeed, the men are utterly ridiculous and that only makes them more loveable than if they’d been your typical on-screen heroes.

The movie is rife with bad singing. Cliches. Entendres. Structural failings. It’s hokey and corny, with its share of bad acting, too. But audiences flock to it. Why?

I’ll never know. But I might give it a third try.

Ouf

Blogging about The Slap is probably a dumb idea, but I can’t help myself. I’m so conflicted.

I’m not in love with Hollywood, but more of the frame of mind right now that they are a bunch of privileged assholes. I did not watch the Oscars. I wouldn’t be caught dead. But the two men involved in The Slap are near and dear to my heart.

I love Will. I love Chris. I feel like two of my sons just got in a fight, and I’m worried that they’re mad at each other. Let me address The Slap with a series of questions, so I can work out my own internal conflict about it:

Did Chris know about Jada’s hair loss condition? He has publicly commented that he didn’t. But if he did, was the joke really crossing the line? Is calling her GI Jada really that bad?

Why is JPS so special that she is off-limits? And why go to the Oscars if you can’t take the heat? All stars get roasted at the Oscars, it’s part of it.

Why did Will laugh at first, then get angry? Because he looked at Jada’s expression? How could he have reacted better?

Does Will really think he set a good example for his children?

Did Will slap all of Jada’s lovers, too?

Is Will o.k.? He looked like a physical and emotional wreck. Laughing, then fighting, then weeping, then partying later. I think Will needs some serious help.

Was there underlying tension between Chris and Will before The Slap? Are they friends? Enemies? Neither?

Did Chris tell Will ahead of time he was going to make the joke, and Will told him not to, but Chris did anyway?

How is Chris feeling? More importantly, what was Adam Sandler’s reaction to The Slap? I’d love to hear what he thinks about it, as Chris Rock is his best friend.

Will Chris change his mind about pressing charges?

Will Will be barred from attending the Oscars in the future?

If it had been a different star than Will Smith, would they have been arrested?

Is Will’s award besmirched? Does he feel regret?

Will he be stripped of his Oscar?

Did Will and Chris already settle this amiably between them, as reported by a mutual friend?

Is Chris classy enough to realize he has just received a lifetime’s worth of free material?

What does Chris’s family think?

Are more people on Will’s or Chris’s side? Hollywood is supposedly pro-Chris.

How could The Slap have played out better?

I have an answer for the last one. After the GI Jada joke, Jada should have stood up with all of her gorgeousness, flashed that million-dollar smile, raised those beautiful toned arms in the air, and gotten a standing ovation. She could have shown her children, her colleagues, her husband and the world that not only has she gotten through a terrible condition, but she did it with style, class and humor. Will would have looked at her with love and admiration, and been able to enjoy the moment of watching the world celebrate the mother of his children.

 So she’s bald, big deal. She could have been the class act of the night.

Just how I see it.

Blow(dryer) Jobs

*(I added the “dryer” at last minute- I chickened out).

Over the last few months my hair had not been coming out well after styling, and I didn’t understand why.

Until recently.

I’m crazy with my hair, and that observation cannot be overstated enough. I take hair gummies for shine and texture, and I can tell when my diet is off because my hair gets depressed. If my hair doesn’t look good, I don’t feel good, so ultimately, my hair predicates my mood. I don’t even like hairdressers styling my hair at the end of an appointment, because there is only one way I like it to be styled, and that’s my way. No curls, no straightening, no bouffant, no hair spray or gel.

(The only exception to this is before a photo shoot. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: no matter what your stylist says will look good when you’re photographed, BELIEVE HIM/HER. They know what they’re talking about. Every good photo session I’ve ever had is because I put my complete trust in the stylists and photographer. That’s the magic combo, baby).

But for a regular hair appointment? “Just hand me that blow dryer and I’ll do it myself.” Stylists are baffled by this, because part of their fee is for a blow-out and style.

So imagine my dismay the last few months as I’ve watched my hair turn brittle, lifeless and flat. I tried every imaginable product, added an extra gummy to my diet, bumped up fruits and veggies, rinsed with cold water, but nothing worked. Every day I looked at my split ends, dumbfounded as to what had changed in my routine.

The first day I arrived in Tampa, I took a shower and did my hair before the first Meet-and-Greet, and as I was blow drying my hair, I could immediately tell that something was different. For the first time in months my hair was being cooperative. It was soft and shiny, and responded to my styling method. And even when it got a little humid out, my hair stayed sleek and healthy.

Weird. Was it the water? The air? The sun?

It wasn’t until the second day that I realized what was different. As I was drying my hair with the villa blow dryer, feeling the tingle of the powerful hot air on my scalp, I became curious to know what brand blow dryer was giving me such a good blow job. I glanced down.

Baby Bliss Pro.

Boom chaka-laka.

Of course. It was the blow dryer. I have always used a Baby Bliss Pro, but a few months ago mine had finally died after years of use. So one day I was in Walgreens, and I grabbed a Revlon blow dryer for 30 bucks, because hot air is hot air, right?

NO! NOT RIGHT! WRONG!

The Baby Bliss Pro has 2000 watts of power and dries hair quickly for reduced split ends and frizz. You’d have to use a high-quality blow dryer to understand a low-quality one. My crappy Revlon dryer took forever to dry my hair, the AC motor so cheap that it exposed my hair to more damaging heat for longer.

Here is a description of my Baby Bliss.

Hairstylists covet Dyson blowdryers, others like Hot Bar or Hot Tools. Regardless of what kind of blow dryer you use, just be aware that you get what you pay for.

Bad Squishy

(Let me start by saying I love Philly. The following is just an amusing and ACCURATE anecdote. Please don’t email me and tell me “Why don’t you just move if you hate it so much.” Or email me, whatever. “Squishy” is a term of endearment from “Finding Nemo.”

So as I was walking to the fifth row of my flight, just two rows behind first-class, it was clear that the only space for my carry-on was a tiny spot above a geriatric man. And since I was tired, the space was small, and my bag was heavy, I caught the flight attendant’s eye. For this story I shall her Squishy, and she shall be my Squishy.

“Can you help me?” I asked her, struggling with the weight of my bag.

“No.”

Bad Squishy. I quickly caught myself and mumbled out loud as I tried to shove my bag in by myself.

“Shit, that’s right, I forgot.”

Squishy stared at me.

“Forgot what?”

My mouth opened to say, “That this is a Philly flight crew,” but thank you dear lord, I caught myself. I made some excuse and quickly took my seat. The other flight attendant was haggard and worn, with a unibrow and really really bad hair. I wanted so much to take her for a makeover to show her what she was doing wrong.

When Squishy came around taking beverage orders, silly me, I asked for black coffee.

“There is no coffee.”

I paused, and watched first-class passengers being served coffee.

“No coffee? You mean no coffee here, or in the whole world?”

“Here.”

No coffee for me.

I knew what would meet me when I landed in Philly. Gotham-like darkness. Underpaid and overworked attendants pushing around thin brooms or sitting around on golf carts. Stores closed and barricaded with metal gates. Deserted baggage claim turnstiles going around aimlessly in circles, people waiting desperately to claim their luggage and get out of the dystopian nightmare that is the Philadelphia International Airport late at night.

As we were all walking to baggage claim, which had switched to Terminal B, an unkempt man came up behind me, claiming he had been on my flight. He began to joke with me that since he was following me to baggage claim, if I screwed up, he would be lost too.

I tried to be polite, of course. But I was tired, cold, hungry and angry at my Squishy, and to top it all off, I still had to find my car in the cavernous parking garage and then drive home. I suppose he interpreted my initial smile as encouragement, so he began to tell me his life story. Traveling since 4 a.m. from Milwaukee, hungry and exhausted. Then he asked me if I wanted to stop at an airport café and buy him a cheesesteak. He laughed after the request as if he were joking. But he wasn’t.

How. The. Fuck. Do. I. Attract. These. Kind. Of. Men. I demand an answer. NOW!

I’m not subtle. I literally stopped walking next to him, without excuse. He stopped too, at first, then realizing his faux pas, continued on by himself. I did not continue walking until he was out of sight. And while this may not be socially correct, here it is: I once read a quote that said something like, “Be nice to outcasts, you never know what they’re going through.”

My answer? Sometimes they’re outcasts for a good reason. And when you’re a single woman traveling late at night, assume that all you want.

 

Good Squishy

(“Bad Squishy” will be tomorrow’s post)

I had the greatest flight attendant from Tampa to Raleigh. She was a young Southern girl, tough, super-efficient, quick and polite. I’ve been around young leaders like this before- I’ve experienced them as students, as team leaders, and as hostesses. It was the first time I have ever led a group of people in a round of applause for a flight attendant- we were all in agreement. She was incredible. You would have had to see her in action to understand.

For some inexplicable reason I had a connecting flight in Raleigh, so I was a little kerfuffled. I also had neglected to book first class for my second flight. Must’ve forgotten to tick off that box. No biggie, even I can handle 90-minutes in coach. But I was quickly reminded that I was headed away from the paradise and good manners of sunny Tampa and back to “Chews-and-Then-Spits-Out-Razor-Blades” Philadelphia.

The Tampa airport, if you aren’t aware, is like a pretty mall, with pretty stores selling pretty merch. I saw a fluffy purple unicorn display, a neck massage demo, and the requisite Bose store. Fresh fruit cups and fresh flowers spilled out of ice bucket displays, and friendly baristas were busy concocting delicious frappes and lattes for their adoring public. The flight was as sweet and chipper as our attendant, and when it landed a little late, the attendants had us stay seated so that people trying to catch tight connections could get off first.

Truly a feel-good experience.

Then I boarded my Philly flight. Remember that scene in “Finding Nemo” when Marlin and Dory are playing with the happy light, then realize it’s an anglerfish?

 

 

Yep. Good feeling's gone. Tune in tomorrow for "Bad Squishy."

This ‘n That

For the record, I don’t HATE anyone. But the feeling I have for people who are landing in the same vacation destination that I am sad about leaving is a feeling that hovers in the gray area between annoyance and murderous rage. When I’m waiting at my gate for my departure flight so that I can return to Gray Jersey, and people are walking off the plane into 85 degree sunny weather, full of hope and joy and expectation to be in this beautiful place, well…I just hate them. Despite the fact that I am tan and rested, I hate them.

There was one day in Tampa where I made a beeline to the patio bar after my days’ conferences, and replied “Just f*** me up” to the bartender’s question, “What can I get you today?” I have always wanted to say that and mean it, but I knew I had to wait for the right time and right bartender. Friday was the day, and Joe just smirked and nodded, and with the seriousness of a chemist, began concocting. One drink and a four-hour nap in my villa later, I returned to Joe, congratulated him on his libation skills, and stated “Thank you sir, may I have another?” Killer poolside drink.

There was this bald guy waiting to board in front of our gate in Philadelphia, and he looked like a 1D guy. I’ve written about the freaks in 1D already. This bald guy started singing “You’ll Never Find” by Lou Rawls, just jamming and dancing to the noise that was traveling from his pods to his brain stem. And I said to myself, “He’s going to be next to me, I just know he’s going to be next to me, I just know it…” Yes. He was. Never fails. He turned out to be an o.k. seatmate in the end.

I did not make it to the Pirate Ball. I know you’re disappointed in me, so were my mates. But I had an issue that was out of my control. My presentation had ended at five, and I went right to the pool, and promptly fell asleep in the sun, mostly from relief that it was over and had gone well. Not great. Just well. When I returned to my room to get ready for the banquet, I went to charge my laptop and realized I had left my charger in the meeting salon plugged into the projector. It took security 90 minutes on a busy Saturday night to track that puppy down, but they finally delivered it to my room at 9:00 p.m. Since 9:00 is my bewitching hour, I called it a night.

Bummer. No pirate’s booty.


Give a Man a Mask and He Will Tell You the Truth

(Quote above attributed to Oscar Wilde)

Easter Sunday is April 17th. If you’re traveling that week, please be aware that mask mandates on airplanes, while originally ending on March 18th, have been extended THROUGH April 18th. COVID has graciously agreed to vacate airports and airplanes by Easter week. But don’t go getting your hopes up, now- that’s how the word “through” gets us every time. By saying “through,” media implies that mandates can go through April 18th.

Through, you know. The same way spaghetti water goes through a sieve.

How bugs go through a hole in your screen.

The way Taco Bell goes through your digestive system.

By using the word “through,” the CDC (The Center for Dumbass Conclusions) creates a semantical loophole.

But I’m optimistic for you, really. I had to wear a mask to and from Tampa, and I’ll most assuredly have to wear one on the way to and from Scottsdale as well. But I’m optimistic for all of you Easter Week traveling folks.

Now that it’s over, I’m going to say what I’ve been waiting to say. Masks prevented nothing. NOTHING. And if you still want to wear one, the rest of us support you. Just don’t expect us to continue with the charade.

I blogged once about the syndrome proven by several health outlets, that explains why many people like wearing a mask:

Some people like hiding their faces, because they think they are physically unattractive.

Some people like to be incognito.

Some people are disgusted by human society, and don’t want to breathe the same air as other people.

Some people have facial disfigurement, acne, tics.

Some people like not having to brush their teeth, shave, or apply makeup, and the masks are excuses to avoid grooming.

So FINE. To each his own. Just so you know the rest of us, those of us who found masks to be an infringement on our freedoms, can’t help but be amused at your indignation that we can now live mask-free.

I will miss masks for one reason: it was an easy filter for single people. A man wearing a mask alone in his car or outside in the fresh air was a sure indication for me and many women like me that no matter how much money he has, how intelligent he is, or how loving and kind, there had to be some kind of deep-seated fear or aberrance that would never be able to be overcome. And vice versa, I assure you. I cannot tell you how many times in the past two years I have walked around blatantly without a mask, just to see men’s reactions. My signal was clear:

I mask for no man. What you see is what you get.

Flah

Being back in Tampa after three years of being away was both strange and wonderful. There is a saying that the more people you see in an area who are jogging for fun, the higher the rent. And in this case, the higher the price of drinks.

Yeah, Tampa.

The outside deck bar and lounge area were the same- overstuffed chairs overlooking the River Walk and billion-dollar real estate properties nestling in and around 25 million-dollar yachts. The men were still “I run the world during the week, and then I golf, walk my Corgi and sail my yacht on the weekend” gorgeous. Listen, normally about 1 out of 50 men are my type, and that’s being kind. In Tampa, it moves to about 8/10. If I look in one direction, another silver fox sneaks up on me from another direction.

Jeez freaking Louise.

The pool area is the same, as is the conference center. Drink and food prices have skyrocketed so drastically that several members of my dinner party laughed audibly when our separate checks arrived. I got the laugh of the night as I signed for my one glass of Pinot Noir and asked the waiter if a vineyard came with it.

The floating tiki bars and paddleboarders are still floating down the canal, and the requisite bachelor/bachelorette parties once again took over the property, as well as weddings, conventions, and golf conferences, you name it. For a week I enjoyed sitting in the middle of all of that happy buzz, reveling in every minute of beautiful women and men coming and going in their busy lives, all of us just happy to leave the last two years in the past.

I had packed for this same trip in March of 2020, my bags by the door. The Tuesday before my departure, I remember getting a strange email. Something called covid was forcing the directors of the conference to cancel. I remember being baffled by that.

Two years of a dystopian nightmare, and I’m back, in a sort of reclamation kind of state. I thank Tampa for being so welcoming, so constant, and just so… Tampa.

WiFi How I Hate Thee

notmaryonhercomputer

Wifi, How I Hate Thee

First, the above is not a photo of Mary. If it was a photo of Mary right now she would be banging her head on the desk or wall- shoot no she’d be taking shots of tequila and texting her friend and webmaster guru to ask to post because her computer is being temperamental with the swanky hotel wifi. Hence, why I’m posting and not her. Mary asks me to convey her apologies for not posting , and to let folks know there will be no new posts for the rest of the week. Hey it’s good time to delve into some of her past posts. Don’t be forlorn  . . . She will be back Monday!! Toodles.