(Unfortunately the only photo evidence I have of this encounter died with the harddrive it was on years ago, as it was pre-smartphone technology.)
It is 9:30 in the morning and I’m on an Alaska Air flight from San Diego to Seattle with my aunt. Shortly after we take off, I notice that one of the flight attendants is bringing First Class goods back into the regular cabin. (My aunt and I are sitting in the third row back.) After the third total giggle fit, I look up and notice her smiling and flirting with a group of gentlemen—one of which looks insanely familiar. The flight attendant asks if they need drinks, and I hear the familiar-looking guy say, “Do you have any Courvoisier, sweetheart?” (I SWEAR TO YOU I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP). And that’s when I realize it. Holycrap. Is that? I think it is. THAT! Is! Morris! Day!
I turn to my aunt to whisper this exciting news, but of course, she doesn’t know who the hell I’m talking about it. Trying to keep it cool, so under my breath I’m like, “Morris Day! And the Time! You know, The Time? Jungle Love? The Oak Tree?? THE BIRD??? The motherfucking TIME. How do you not know this?” Continue reading
In my memory, I look WAY cooler. But this is what 13-year-old me had goin’ on.
I was 13, and I was wearing his Huey Lewis the News tee, cropped jeans, white Keds, and a red bandana tied around my neck. We drove around in his car for a while, Berlin’s Pleasure Victim cranked on the stereo. (Despite the obvious sexuality of the “Sex…I’m A” lyrics, nothing about this night was about sex. It was about romance.)
He stopped the car, we got out to look at the stars — and in one, magical movement, he swept me off my feet, sat me on top of the hood, and leaned in to kiss me. It seemed like it lasted forever. It was a perfect movie moment with someone special, and one of the last (and only) times I’d be with a boy who didn’t immediately push me for more.
Just a kiss. A really beautiful, unforgettable kiss.
If I knew where he was now, I’d thank him for that.
Thank you, Terry. For one of the only nice teenage memories I have. Thank you.
Attn. nerds: this is the river in LoTR where Arwen saves Frodo from the Ringwraiths!!! (with Jen & me trying to look cool in front of it)
Eight years ago on March 24, I was in New Zealand with my friends Jen & Rob on what I like to call “my divorce settlement trip.” Divorce settlement meaning that I took the money I got from selling the my ex’s Mustang and motor home (which he left on my dad’s property, and I’m fully convinced he only gave them to me–via the divorce agreement–because he didn’t want to face my dad in order to get them back) and used it to buy plane tickets. J&R generously financed my hotel rooms, which I will never be able to thank them for ENOUGH, because it was one of the raddest things I’ve ever done.
Anyway! We started in Queenstown, with a side-trip to Dunedin, and then we moved to Auckland for the last few days. Queenstown is INSANELY BEAUTIFUL. Surrounded by clear, gorgeous bright blue water, with a ring of mountains so close you can pretty much touch them, and a cute brick-laid main street with lots of eating, drinking, and shopping options. Dunedin was a 6-hour drive away, and had more of a big city feel (as big a city as you can pack onto an island, anyway). And Auckland reminded me so much of Seattle, it was eerie. But I digress.
Here I present to you my favorite moments from that trip–the things that I think about a lot. And miss. And want to relive. Continue reading
Even my drink is frowning at "that guy."
So here’s how I found myself at a bar with a full-grown man stomping up and down like a child, while screaming that I had made the biggest mistake of my life.
It was a week night, and one in which I was engaged in a traveling happy hour—as in, a few friends and I started at one bar and drank our way through a few before ending up at 611.
Anyway, whilst at the second bar, we ran into a few other traveling happy hourers, a couple of perfectly nice and normal ladies with a guy who also seemed just fine. Two drinks in he starts chatting me up…and at first, it’s just your usual bar chatter. “Where you from? What do you like to do?” etc. Then he asks if I want to step outside for a cigarette. I politely decline, and the crazy starts in.
“Why? What’s wrong with you?”
“Uh. I don’t smoke. I’m actually allergic to smoke, so I prefer to stay as far away from it as possible.”
“I don’t really believe that. No one’s allergic to smoke! Why don’t you want to go with me? Don’t you know we’re meant to be together?”
“….that’s…funny? Wait, what?” Continue reading
This is the face we make at mountains of debt.
Just have major surgery. And then maybe screw up your taxes, just for good measure. It’s THAT easy!
When all the Occupy protests started, I became even more aware of all the things that were awesome about my life. I was lucky to be able to be making enough money freelancing to support myself; I was lucky to be in a stable, loving relationship that offered support if I couldn’t; and I was lucky that we had a beautiful home and could afford to pay our all bills and eat and entertain ourselves and have fun.
BUT. I also knew that if either one (or, even scarier, both) of us lost our jobs or had some major medical emergency, we would quickly lose that feeling of security, which could eventually lead to us losing our beautiful home, and then the ability to afford to feed ourselves. I just didn’t imagine how close I was to something like that happening.
The bulk of my surgery cost a whopping $23,000. Luckily, I had insurance, and even luckier, that whole “pre-existing condition” nonsense was no longer in effect, so it was covered by my insurance. Still, after they took a stab at it, it came to around $8,000. Or…so I thought before I called the surgeon’s office to pay their $700 share of that, and then found out the insurance processed it wrong and I owed an additional $400 and something. And, then there’s the anesthesiologist’s bill. And the pathology bill. And, well, let’s just say the bills, they keep on rolling in. Continue reading