Expectations

I have high expectations of myself. Everyone and everything else, not so much. In fact, I am often waiting to be disappointed.

You never know—looking at hotels and destinations on the web—how much they resemble reality, and what exactly you are going to get. "Garden Room" and "Veranda" are highly subjective terms especially when the country you are visiting is not native English-speaking. 

My recommendation to this establishment? Get a new photographer. 

We arrived in Mexico just yesterday and our hotel is more than was imagined or could have been conceived possible through a couple of pictures. It is absolutely freakin' amazing. With just 25 rooms, we basically have the place to ourselves and don't have to listen Aunt Marge from Indianapolis talk about her bunions (the #1 reason we "don't do" all inclusive resorts). 

We are in a top floor Master Suite. Not so much of a “suite”, but the dark deck flooring and white sheer canopies throughout the room more than make up for that fact. As does the view from the bed. Imagine sleeping to the sound of crashing waves, then waking up to pull back the curtains and see the beach, sky and tops of palm trees—from the bed—while winds dance with the white canopies around you. I am not. even. kidding. The view from the shower and the toilet is pretty much the same. Yes, the toilet. No need for a newspaper here (for Scott of course).

We aren't overly romantic people, but you cannot help but be all over each other and completely smitten in this place. And you don't even need alcohol (or foreplay for that matter). 

The understated yet ultimate selling point of this place is the terrace. Me and 10 of my closest friends (you can come next time) could lounge out there with golden margaritas and watch the pool, waves and sky to our hearts delight. Unless of course you would like to walk down to the canopy tent on the beach and get an hour massage for $45. Yep. 

A little slice of paradise, found once again. Boutique hotel. Reasonable prices. Fantastic food. Better drinks (one of which I am having right now, thank you Angel). What job? 

I realize I have just written a hotel review.  Just call me TripAdvisor. And here's my picture. 

Familiar Faces from Distant Places

I am cursed, no blessed, no cursed with incredibly lucid dreams. My subconscious is a terrible taunt and reminder of past lives that play out like modern day fables through my nighttime adventures. And then there's the flip side--my future subconscious that carves my path and makes decision without regard for my opinion and surprise, the next day (or soon thereafter) they are reality.

It's true this is a characteristic of my "type" (INFJ) but it's just plain weird. At times I wish lobotomies were still practiced. 

I went through a period of a couple weeks where no joke, half of my friends were having my boyfriend's baby. Night after night, another child. I am ordering up paternity tests, stat.

I work a lot in my dreams--solving problems and coming up with answers. Unfortunately, I wake up thinking I already resolved it (in real life) and then don't get to it for a day or two.

Unexplainably (word?), a somewhat insignificant former like interest (in the grand scheme of things) visits me often--like at least once a week lately. Sometimes directly, sometimes subtly but it always makes me wildly uncomfortable. Last night, he popped in to tell me he was gay. I forgot about it until he was at the top of my news feed on Facebook. Maybe if he just went back to Canada he'd lose his passport to my dreams (ha!).

And then there's this: I dreamed I died once. The whole falling thing? Yep, I hit the ground. Then went to a party where every other dead person I knew was talking to me as if it were completely normal. It was the first and last time I screamed for Mommy in the middle of the night (and actually called her) after I turned twenty-one.

While these are the experiences most often recalled, there are also fantastic dreams that make me late for work having wanted to sleep just a few minutes more. Use your imagination. And then there's the old friends that out of the deepest corner of the subconscious pop in and it warms your heart to see their faces. You might not know their names, of course.

The dreams themselves aren't the problem, but the physical and emotional manifestations that carry with me the next day, sometimes days. Waking up sweating, crying, laughing, in pain, happy, depressed, angry--you name it, it's happened. I know it's not "real"...or is it? I mean, I thunk it right?

Freakiness. I don't tell people about these things often. You can likely see why. 

Mac Attack

Not a Big Mac, a shiny silver one. I have the Pro, Scott has the iPhone....and now, I will have the iPad. As disgusting as the name is (c'mon Apple, I know we like to keep it simple but really) I totally want one. I'll just call it the iBook. Or the iNote. Or how about just mINE.

iBooks and Blog Writing. From the same device. Sold.

It is the answer to my quest for something "the size of a kindle that allows me to read books, write to my blog, check my email and easily carry". Yes, several Facebook status updates dedicated to this topic. I don't care that it's not a phone--I'd rather not have one quite frankly.

If I'm going to spend $300 for a Kindle, I'm sure as shit gonna spend another $300 to get the top of the line iPad. I have been dead set against an electronic book reading device, I found it insulting to the purity of the printed page. iPad changes this for me. I like the way the pages turn. Really, and just shut up ok.

So tonight I cleaned up iTunes, tidied up the hard drive, and ensured MobileMe was working as it's supposed to in prep for my iPad....in April.

Seriously, the wait is about the only thing that sucks.

P.S. In the words of my client, suck it Verizon! You lose. Again.

Nooooo Reservations

It's been a long time since the days of boy crushes. From my first love Corey Haim, to everyone loves Jordan Knight to 21 Jumpstreet (ok, and Blow, and every other movie made) Johnny Depp to...Anthony Bourdain. Yes, Tony. Bad or Good, doesn't matter.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go here. Then watch. The show, No Reservations. In the opening credits, Tony introduces the concept by saying "I write, I travel, I eat". What, I mean WHAT, could be better than getting paid to do those three things? Really. This guy hit the fucking jackpot.

The show itself is so well done, it makes me want to go, it makes me want to write, and lord does it make me want to eat. And eat. The scenery is beautiful, the content interesting, and the show opens with an inappropriate content warning. It's R-rated education--two for the price of one. Not to mention the odd calm that washes over me as I partake in this boob tube gem--truly the only television show I commit to watching. Really.

Ten o'clock on Monday night is the best hour of the week (and after two hours of the mind numbing Wings of Love crazies that I just can't help but watch when time permits, quality TV is much needed).

And after the shittiest day of the week (you know it is, even if you love your 9-5 gig), No Reservations and a bottle of Rombauer is exactly what I need. Now, to figure out how to get that job...or marry Tony.

Just call me Bob.

Vila that is. The original home renovation TV show, ah the good old days.

We are in full swing of dressing up the lake house. It has come so far from the days of drunken squatters (also called friends and friends of friends) sleeping on the nasty gray carpet, and it just keeps getting better. Of course, there's always something else to take care of, fix, update, and so on but I suppose that's half the fun.

A lot has been done this past week. In major projects, Scott installed new wood plank ceilings in the third bedroom (previously referred to as the storage room) and what I now call the "Master Bath." The kitchen is still to be completed, but it is the biggest of the jobs and may require a little assistance. We all have our limitations, and would like to keep the chiropractor bills reasonable.

The "Master Bath" has been the bane of my existence since the house was purchased. After several failed attempts at getting the folks from Save My Bath to come save my bath, it's become obvious that if it's to be, it's up to me. So, working with what we got I made a few small improvements and the net effect is drastic.

I scrubbed, re-caulked and purchased new bath organizers for the cast iron tub. That bitch is big and heavy, and the only way we are replacing it is with a crane. While I know the mens would enjoy that thoroughly, not currently in the budget.

I threw away the $7 flea market gold mirror circa 1967 and installed, what else, an Ikea bathroom cabinet. That alone was HUGE.

And now for the creativity...

The sconces on either side of the mirror were also gold (to match of course), and old as dirt. I bought new ones from the pottery barn outlet a year ago (yep, aspirations are long standing), but soon realized there was no switch on the new sconces to turn them on and off. Hmm. Electrical is not something we mess with in this house, less the super easy flush mount lighting replacements. Believe me, in a house this old with several ungrounded outlets and do it yourself electrical routing, you too would not want to play with wires.

I decided to update those gold beauties with spray paint. You would not believe the options available to one in spray paint these days. I got one sconce off the wall to paint outside, but the other one, with the switch, wasn't happening. So we built a box around it and, voila, inside spray painting. Note picture.

The bathroom is without a linen closet as well. Yours truly grabbed a wine rack (I have an abundance of these) and once again, magic! A stylish towel holder. Add to that a corner shelf and decorative yet functional baskets and now we have an almost renovated bathroom.

I still need to add a new door and replace the cabinet fixtures (did that in the kitchen last week, so pretty), but the fact that I actually want to shower (and will) in this bathroom is a first.

Several little improvements, but combined make one much better bathroom. The devil is in the details, and when you can't completely demolish and replace, think about the little things that end up making all the difference.

Onto the kicthen...

The end result...

Gold Beauty in a Box

Home...Alone

I'm flying solo tonight...no man, no dog. They are working on the ceiling project at the lake, while I stayed behind to pack. I enjoy my alone time. Time to decompress, be with myself--and yes, you can "be" with yourself (get your mind outta the gutter)--watch what I want, eat what I want, whatever my heart desires. I like hanging out with myself. It's called space and it's healthy. In fact, I think I prefer it.

Tonight, however, I'm feeling a little different. Packing. I hate it. Not the physical act of it, but the idea of putting all the things I have carefully and painstakingly selected to surround myself with over the years that represent my family, my friends, my life...in a box. A dark cold lonely place for who knows how long this time around.

Ever since the first time I moved, and maybe because of the first time I moved, I have disliked this process, no matter how much promise the next residence or city offers. I was 7 or 8 and I was leaving my family home after "the divorce". I have vivid memories of taking down the porcelain birthday angels and dolls from around the world that my grandparents had picked up on their retirement travels and crying, not understanding why we had to leave. It was awful. But at least I didn't grow up in Jersey.

Then, when we moved from Langhorne to Doylestown I was miserable because I was leaving my best (and only) friend, even though I only knew her for a year. Doylestown was then home, and the last home I lived in before I set out on my own. When my Mom decided to sell the house that I consider "where I grew up" I was devastated. I was in college at this point. Pathetic, I know.

Yes, I am a woman of home and hearth. It means the world to me. When it is unstable, I am unstable. I have a symbiotic relationship with my residences and the things that fill them. They are just physical places and stuff, but they keep me from the cold & rain, comfort me in my woes, and celebrate my successes simply by being there. 

So once again, I am packing up these things in this place--a place I hated for almost six months but of course am now sad to leave. So I'm melancholy. Just a little.
 
I know the next place these boxes rest will be mine & his together, and the first that's truly mine. It's wonderful to think of, as well as what promises to be enjoyable layover at the lake. But I will still think of the $8 vase I lugged back from Mexico that has completed my mantel for the past four years sitting in a box in a storage center in Powder Springs. Yes, it makes me sad.

Home is most definitely where my heart is, no matter how many there may be in life.

False Advertising

I have been meaning to comment on this for some time--wtf? The "Taco Bell Drive Thru Diet"?

We really have reached the end of days. It's unbelievable that their legal department didn't object to this marketing campaign, especially given the restrictions on how nutritional value is reported these days. And the obvious. IT'S TACO BELL!

What's not so unbelievable is that there is likely a longer line at that drive thru...of insanely obese people thinking Taco Bell is the answer to a bikini body.Only in America. I can see Europe laughing at us from a far. Then again, the French eat cake and stay skinny. Assholes.

Maybe Philip Morris should jump on this band wagon because lord knows cigarettes have kept people skinny for years. Just a suggestion.