I Am the Walrus Lobster

Cinnamon hearts. Red Hot Dollars. The Devil.

What do these all have in common, you might ask? They’re crimson. Scorching. Sizzling. Now you can add my name to the tippity top of that there list.

Sunburned.

I invited my city-dwelling friends home to my country house for a long weekend jaunt. Thanks Mom and Dad! All last week, I incessantly checked accuweather.com, fingers crossed for three sunny days. And boy did we luck out.

I’ve always been Notorious(ly) B.A.D. when it comes to SPFing-it-up. I’m shocked that my nose is still intact after all my years of lifeguarding. I just don’t do it...that well. I’m inept. I like being tan.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve wisened up a bit – I’ll put some sunblock on my face after sitting out for an hour or so. If I’m starting to feel the burn, I'll lather up my body.

But this summer, with melanoma on the rise and the ozone layer on the outs – I’ve finally decided to be an über good kid. Yes, I made a promise to myself that I shall put sunscreen all over the second I step outside. Hawaiian Tropic SPF 6 tanning lotion (LOVE the smell!), fine, but that’s something.

So you can only imagine my dismay when, this past Saturday, I got sunburned. Bad.

Overcast skies blossomed into bright blue, cloudless oceans shortly after we went out to the pool. Good to my word, I smeared the sunscreen on. But all of a sudden, after no time at all, my good pal K. Cobb said I looked a little red. What! How? I put SPF SIX ON!!!!!!!!

Omgees.

I went inside and, after my eyes adjusted, I looked in the mirror. Lo and behold, I had transformed into a lobster. Sans antennae, but lobster nevertheless.

I poured SPF 30 (unheard of!) all over and went back out to the pool. But as the hours crept by, the shade of my skin developed like a photograph, turning from rosy to ruby.

Meanwhile, Kelly – who had nada but SPF 6 OIL on – made it through unscathed. Unscorched. Perfectly sunkissed. So the only thing we can figure is that my sunscreen had passed its prime.

Sunscreen expires? Who knew!

Sunburns are one of the most painful ailments ever. My skin was so taut, it felt like I'd suddenly gained 100 pounds and my flesh was too small to contain me. I was super hot to the touch, as if I'd just been suspended over a ginormous pot of boiling water.

Now I know firsthand how those poor, delicious crustaceans feel. And look.

Oh how I wish I could swim in a vat of chilled aloe!

Needless to say, I’ll be SPF 15-ing it up from now on.

Turbulence is Terrifying

Next to water bugs, I think the scariest thing in the world is turbulence.

I know, I know. People are not meant to fly. Otherwise we wouldn’t weigh hundreds of pounds (why oh why does food have to be delicious!)

And, oh, we’d have wings.

But since the brilliant innovation of the mighty aeroplane, it’s possible for us to get from one place to another lickety split.

Unfortunately the lickety part ain’t so lickety.

It’s funny that, as a child, you’re always super psyched to fly. I used to love hopping on a plane and jetting off to Disney World.

But the older I get, the more frightened I am of going up, up, up and awaaaay.

Perhaps it’s because, in the event of a crash, you face certain death. (Does anyone else agree that there has been a ridiculous amount of plane crashes lately???)

But the turbulence…the turbulence! I loathe thee! Why do you have to be such an inevitable part of flying? Why oh why!

I haaate the teeth smashing, stomach flopping, leg slamming air bumps. It’s crazy that pressure and property and velocity changes (I can’t even attempt to understand the mathematical equations that are turbulence…is that physics?) cause me to become extreeeeeemely paranoid.

Maybe it’s the close quarters. The inability to move around. The fact that I am strapped to an extremely uncomfortable seat, for better or for worse.

But most likely, my turbulence terror is induced by the knowledge that I am zooming through the air, upwards of 35,000 feet, at 500 miles per hour.
Yes, it is this unnerving reality that makes turbulence so horrifying. It makes me never want to fly ever again. It’s like the beginning of Garden State when Zach Braff experiences such dreadful turbulence, he is sure he is going to die. 

That is how I feel every time those bumps rear their horrific heads.

I hate you turbulence.

Bumper Cads

Now - I know that I just wrote a blog about sidewalk rage, about the frustration that slow people ensue.

But after a long weekend of driving in cars and spending time in uncrowded locales (Honey Pot Hill Orchards excepted - shit yo, that place was more crowded than Times Square on a Saturday afternoon!) - I was fairly zen.

My bubble of protective personal space had grown, à la Grinch’s heart, three sizes. In the country, you see, there was no one that even came close enough to step on my toes, bump into me, or whack hands with.

Alas, as all good things must come to an end, it was inevitable that my invisible countryside buffer would evaporate the second I crossed the NYC threshold.

What am I talking about, you ask?

Oh you know...just those harebrained, cockamamie people who can’t make up their mind which side to pass on.

Now I’m not talking pass as in walk by because they’re dillydallying - I’m talking crossing paths, how-do-ye-do, each-on-their-own-merry-way-in-opposite-directions pass.

I once read that people prefer to pass other people on their right. Personally, I don’t feel I am one such person. What does matter to me, though, is a smooth pass. As in no noncommittal’s. No wishy-washy’s. No feint and parry’s.

I hate hate hate when I bump into a fellow pedestrian because they lack the ability to pick a passing side and stick to it.

Every single time I walk anywhere, it’s pretty much a given that I will encounter one such person. Oftentimes I run into - literally smack into - someone who can’t commit to going left or right.

And an awkward quasi-dance transpires. Perhaps there’s some accidental groping, an unintentional sideswipe, inadvertent toe smooshing, or, in the worst case scenario, an ass-flattening bottoming out.

Does this phenomenon happen only to my fellow passive aggressive street walkers? Is this über-dicey duel of sorts omnipresent in Katie-Land because I am just so indifferent? Because I, too, am guilty of not really being able to make a decision?

Left/right/left/right? Oh which way should I go!!!

I don’t know which side seems better to commit too! What happens if I don’t take the road not taken?

Not that it really makes a difference. Not in New York City at least.

But seriously people, what’s the problemo?
 It kills me. Really, it does. For example, I’ll be so positive, so unbelievably and unabashedly sure that a person is going to pass me on my left side - maybe because, say, there’s four inches of space on the other side of me - but then, hey, wait, they squeak by me on my right side.

Really? REALLY? There’s FOUR INCHES of space to be had. And you’re just gonna go for it. Omfg. OMFG.

Cads, I tell you. Imbeciles. Jerks.

Maybe these dumbass peeps have a complex - one that doesn't allow them to concede anything at all, ever. So if they set out to pass someone on a particular side, they can’t change their plans mid-pass and reroute.

These sad little people have to take their victories where they can, I suppose.

And so, being the magnanimous person I am, I yield. Yes, I yield - albeit with a stink-eye and an ever-so-slight shove.

When One Needs a Vacation...From Vacation

One would think that the numero uno purpose of a vacation is to enjoy some good ole fashioned R & R.

At least that’s what I thought.

Granted, I knew there would be lots of drinking and sun time and fun times when I went to visit Cassie Cass in Charleston. But seriously, I’m still trying to recover from my five day jaunt to South Carolina.

Boy do those Southerners really know how to party! I live in New York City - the city that NEVER sleeps - but oh man, I'm still huffing and puffing and trying to achieve homeostasis.

I always thought it was funny when people would say they needed a vacation from their vacation. Funny in a very annoying, shut-the-hell-up kind of way. I'd smile politely at them, sure, but all the while I'd be laughing my inner-ass off at their outrageous brattiness.

A vacation from vacation? Seriously?

But now...I understand. Shit yo, yo comprendo. I've been so completely and utterly out of commission this past week. It's pretty very pathetic.


Why?!?! My parents went RV-ing this past weekend, camping at the Air Show in Rhode Island. They're tired today, no doubt. But they’re allowed to be. I, on the other hand, am NOT. Not allowed to be this tired a full week after my vacation ended!

For the past seven days, my limbs have weighed about as much as iron rods. My brain has been a pot of Cream of Wheat. Watery Cream of Wheat. I'm achy all over. So overtired that I can't sleep at night. I've been a zombie - a barely breathing, barely walking, worthless shell of a human being. 

The only reassurance that I am indeed alive is the certainty that, yes, I'm taking up space.

Alas, I gots it now. Hallelujah, I'm not such a judgmental person after all!! I get the "I need a vacation from my vacation" phrase and it's verifiable truth!!
A vacation from vacation is a necessary fact of life. I've become one of those spoiled, bratty people that actually have the audacity to say - out loud - that they need another vacation when they've only just returned from vaca!

So yes, I give you full permission to judge the shit out of me for my incessant whining. For saying that vacations upon vacations are a necessity.

One day, though, I hope you'll experience this phenomenon. And on that day, the judger shall become the judgee. And I shall say: Welcome to the club. 

It sucks.

Drool: You SO Not Cool

Phew. What a rough couple of days. Thank you everyone for your sympathies, I greatly appreciate it. Here's the last picture taken of Coopie lounging on his bed:

At least we can all be grateful that everyone’s best buddy had a super fun Saturday and passed away in his sleep. That was so Cooper, not wanting to bother anyone or be a pain. Very dignified dog.

I, however, was not so very dignified. Which brings me to my next no dankes.

Drool.
I’m fairly – OK, very – self deprecating (in case you haven’t noticed). So I have no problem admitting that I fall victim to the deed of drooling every so often (at least it’s not snoring!) Especially lately. Perhaps it's because I'm getting up there in years.

Sunday night, however, the drool was dog-mourning-induced. I haven’t had a good cry in a very long time so my eyes/nose/mouth had fallen into disuse when it came to the waterworks being turned on.

And boy, were they working overtime. My nose was ridiculously stuffed and running all night – and we all know what happens when ya can’t breathe through your nose. YOU DROOL.

I awoke three times (that I can remember) to a faint tickle slithering down the side of my mouth. OK fine, I’ll admit that this has been happening fairly frequently, but the other night there was an exceptional amount of spillover spit. Thanks plugged up nose!
It's been happening so habitually that my hand now goes automatically to dab the dribble. Yes, this reflex has become (unfortunately) quite second nature. It's like I'm sleepwiping.

Is there a cure for drool? A pill that cements your mouth shut at night? A mouth guard? Head gear?

Although, on second thought, the notion of wearing an insufferable contraption to keep my mouth closed seems…uncomfortable. To say the least. I guess I’ll just deal with my little puddles of dried spittle – after all, I do wash my sheets every other week.

In retrospect, although he wasn’t really big on slobbering, it does make me feel a little closer to Coop. He’s passed on his drooly-flame to me. Thanks bud!

Oh let me guess...it's delayed?

Apologies, apologies for those most loyal followers. I've been on a no dankity hiatus this past week...a phenomenon known to most as vacation.

‘Twas just so hard to complain when you're on a boat near a beach drinking a beer.

Alas, snap back to reality.

I beg your forgiveness, for my complaining may be not precisely up to par. You see, my brain is still as mushy as the silty sand surrounding Morris Island, SC.

But for you, my dear 38 (thank you so much!), I shall try.

Let's start at the very beginning...a very good place to start (thanks Fräulein Maria!) 

I. Hate. Flight. Delays.

Seriously? Why are they allowed? I don't understaaaaand. I'm pretty sure most airlines have got their shit together. And if they don't, then shame on them. For sure.

Kelly and I headed down to Charleston last Thursday morning. We were at the airport perfectly on time – neither too early nor too late. There we sat at the gate, time ticking onward.

The destination board thing wasn’t changing. It said Detroit, not Charleston. And, no judgments here, but I wanted to go to The Holy City, not Motor City.

Of course my anxiety wound its way through my veins, pulsating. Yeah, I had some heart palpitations. But as a first time flyer with my pal KCobb, I didn’t want to seem like too much of a neurotic nutjob.

However, I asked the attendant whither dat flight was headed. And, lo and behold, our gate had moved. We had to take a shuttle bus across the terminal to another gate.

Finally, we got on the plane. It was raining, of course (because let’s be serious, that’s all it DOES here in New York).

We sat.

And we sat.

And we sat some more.

And oh, I’m sorry, we deplaned. Yes. Our hearts sank as we gathered our belongings and stepped off our little putt-putt plane bound for South Carolina. We were wham, bam, thank-you-ma’am SMACKED with a two hour delay (at the very LEAST, our Cap’n said).

Boo hoo, woe was us. But, per usual, to be expected.

We went to the bar and had ourselves a consolation Bloody Mary each.

But, daaaayum you vodka, my anxiety was still in full effect - and after an hour I said I was going to check on the flight. Kelly offered and there I remained, slowly sipping my spicy tomato juice n’ alcohol.

“KATIIEEEEEEEEEE” – say wha? Moi? I looked around.

Oh shit. Departed?!? 

We raaaaan, Home Alone style, to the gate. The flight attendants knew who we were, like magic. Then we sat. Again. For another hour.

And of course, coming back Monday afternoon we were...yes...delayed. Again.
I just don’t understand. It’s really unfathomable. I don’t GET it. Why, when you fly, is it a given that you’ll be delayed?

It’s not FAIR. It’s UNREASONABLE.

We could have slept another hour. We could have enjoyed some Starbucks. We could have finished our Bloody Mary’s for crying out loud.

But no. We got nothing but stale plane air and dead pilots on the runway (so awful!)

And that, my friends, is one of the many reasons I hate flying. Many more to come!

Revolving Door Revolt!

When I was younger, I thought revolving doors were cool. Not as cool as Buddy the Elf thought they were, but then again, I don’t think anyone ever gets that excited about anything. (When you grow up in a town where automatic doors are few and far between, the revolving ones sure were a novelty.)

As I entered adulthood, my regard for those revolvers has plummeted. Quickly. Drastically. Now I associate that special variety of doors with office buildings and office buildings with work and work with being an adult and sometimes I just want to go back to the automatic doors of my youth.

Yes, I know. They’re good for the environment, keeping AC and heat in. But they’re such a pain in the ass.

Every morning there’s a line outside my office building of people waiting to go through the stupid revolving doors. A LINE! And another queue going out when the day is over. I just want to get out of here come 5pm and it makes me very, very angry when you have to wait patiently as everyone takes their turn.

I am not a patient person.

I’ve tried to be patient and understanding in the past. But revolving doors have made me very bitter. At my first job, especially. There was only one – ONE – revolving door and it would take foreverrrrr to get out of there when the workday was finished.

One time a couple of girls kept watching the doors swing round and round. “You go!” They said, giggling, in the voice awkward coworkers use on one another, full of faux niceness. “No, you go!” It spun round and round and round again. My blood starting to boil. And I exploded.

“JUST GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I shouted at them. Four eyes glared at me, two mouths dropped. I thought I was going to get bitch slapped. (I’ve since learned to reign in my anger and use restraint when it comes to shouting at people in the revolving door line. But again, they’re such a pain in the bootay.)

You get yelled at for cutting people off, yet all you want to do is rush in front of them because it takes so long.

If people aren’t pushing on the door as hard as you are, they get smacked in the heels and give you the stinkeye.

It’s not even fun anymore when you sneak in with someone else cause your OWN heels get slapped. And that’s just painful.

Gaaaah, why can’t there be a better way! Come on architects, you’re smart! Get cracking!