Colores de Viejo San Juan

There are just so many colors to look at in Old San Juan. The buildings, the streets, the flowers, the people, the sea, all the colors in my drink... It was gorgeous. Below is a sample from my photos of the amazing palette that paints Viejo San Juan, and a link to my travel blog.

I didn't hit La Perla this trip, the crazy neighborhood tucked beneath El Morro - but Nelly Furtado did! Mala!

Nelly Furtado & Calle 13, La Perla:

A Visit to the NuYorican Cafe

A salad, please, with a side of "Nasty Old Man". WARNING - SKIP THIS POST!!

I took a break from meetings today to have lunch with a co-worker. We're currently working in the executive club of a large hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

The rooms are comfortable, and I have a balcony overlooking a waterfall pool. At night, I fall asleep to the sweet sound of chirping coqui.

So Maga and I are sitting at lunch, when I look up and notice her staring over my shoulder and off into the distance, horrified.

"Is that... a coconut and a s-string?" she sputters.

"Wha - WHAT?" I stuttered as delicately as I could, with a face full of lettuce leaves and goat cheese.

I peered over my shoulder to see an old guy in a g-string, walking along the beach in the middle of the day.

My chewing slowed. We were sitting at the hotel's beach restaurant, which opened out onto the sand, and the beach was full of people tanning, and swimming, and playing frisbee.

Other people sitting on the restaurant deck were also staring, and I put down my fork in protest and mumbled "I'm eating!" to no one in particular.

He must have noticed the glare of my camera lens in the sun, or a crowd of us gawking at him like rednecks on bleachers at a NASCAR race, because he began to sway in our direction, shaking his... bom bom.

And then the show began.

Apparently, not only was he extremely self-confident, which was ... highly optimistic and encouraging, given the sparse dimensions of his grape-smuggling attire, but he was also... happy to see us, a photo of which I refuse to post here on this family-oriented blog.

Although, you've probably already gone blind.

I didn't eat for the rest of the day.

I may not eat tomorrow.

I'd like to introduce you to-o-o-ooo... this person,....

Yesterday at the mall, I was in Sigrid Olsen, and noticed a woman that I used to work with at DHL.

I said hello, and watched her face run through a flash of her life, all of her friends, co-workers, old neighbors, childhood playmates, and extended family members.

Me, I can't forget anything if I tried. I remember every phone number that Jackie of the Swollen Eyebrows has ever had. I remember the names of my elementary school friends' siblings. I remember 30-year old conversations, and the sweater the person was wearing two tables over. Jackie of the Swollen Eyebrows and her husband, Jim of the White Jeans the First Day of Eighth Grade, often roll their eyes, sigh, and wish I had the ability to forget some of their life experiences. They certainly have.

So "DC" is standing in Sigrid Olsen, $75 wooden necklace entwined in her fingers as she stands, frozen, trying to de-frag her brain in less time than it would take for me to realize she can't remember who I am, and two little voices in my head are singing "Jenny" by Flight of the Conchords.

Jenny.
Pardon.
Jenny.
No, I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for somebody else.
No, it's me, I'm Jenny, my name is Jenny.
Oh, you are - oh, I... ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Nothing is uncomfortable when your brain has a good soundtrack.

hot wax and baby wings

I'm leaving for San Juan tomorrow (today, really), and just had an hour and a half of gut-wrenching panic when I couldn't find my camera.

I mean, what's the point of even going to Puerto Rico if I don't have a camera with me??

OK, maybe I could find something to do, but jeez. Well, anyway, camera located.

Since I can now afford the finer things in life, like Starbucks, and pedicures, I stopped off at Starbucks this morning on my way to a pedicure. My mom met me at the nail salon, but she was late. I had way too much time to kill reading the menu of services and draining my caramel macchiato, and spontaneously decided to get my eyebrows waxed.

I've never had my eyebrows waxed before. A) I have naturally gorgeous eyebrows, and B) approximately seven years ago, I was visiting my friend Jackie, and she went to get her eyebrows waxed, and she came out looking like Groucho Marx, with 3rd degree burns for eyebrows. Eventually, her forehead blistered and peeled and only left her with some minor bruising, but she seemed to think that painful pink patches of skin were the norm. I never saw the benefit, and have since avoided hot wax completely.

Then the 40-year Old Virgin came out, and only reinforced my fears.

But with a new income and a free week at a 4-star hotel ahead of me, I'm feeling up for adventure.

Hot wax was spread on my eyebrow area, and it sort of felt like warm honey. Cloth was pressed into the wax and then quickly pulled off and... OHH-H KELLY CLARKSON! nothing. She repeated this three times, then went in with a tweezer and pulled a couple of strays. No blister, no pink skin, no gallon bottle of aloe. Eight bucks. I am never lifting a finger to my own eyebrow again. Jackie, you need to start going someplace else.

I also picked up a ring today. Silver, with a small design of tiny angel wings.

Now, whenever I travel, I can look at my hand, and my baby is with me.

Plus, my nails look really nice. :)

I bet you do, you freaky old bastard, you

I can't get enough of Flight of the Conchords lately. The first clip, "Jenny", just makes me love Jermaine even more. Hang around for the "binary solo" in the second clip. And if you're tired of listening to me sing James Blunt songs, you might enjoy them singing the Bowie song in three... :)

Chicago: It Doesn't Smell Like Urine

I just got back from a short trip to the Windy City. It was my first time visiting the midwest. Although I've been to both coasts, and Canada and Mexico, I've somehow never felt a need to stop off in the middle.

I was excited about visiting Chicago. TGLETSITCAFM, who no longer sits across from me and can now just be referred to by his new, secret agent name, "Jamie", loves it there, and kept telling me how nice everyone was.

Well, nice is nice.

Unfortunately, I had a raging cold the first day, and went through twelve meetings with a balled-up tissue in my hand, and alternated between sneezing my head off, and running off to wash my hands to avoid spreading my plague further. The headquarters of my new job are modern (especially in comparision to the airport, where office furniture went to die). The atmosphere is incredibly laid-back, and the talent seems to be more focused on production than keeping up professional appearances. There were a lot of people in flip flops. Except for my team, as we're sort of the "sales" aspect of the supply side, so I was business-y, with my new "take me seriously and be a little frightened of me" heels. One person from revenue management that I met with actually apologized for not wearing a jacket to our meeting. I had an inclination to say "hey, it's just me", but I didn't.

I'm happy to be taken seriously again, even if it's just via a message from my wardrobe.

After my first workday, I went back to the hotel, ordered up room service, and after a fantastic Cobb salad, knocked myself out with a few shots of Nyquil. I figured that sleep would be the best thing for my cold. It was.

I woke up at 5am without a sniffle, and walked/ran/shuffled down to Millenium Park.

Chicago is CLEAN. New York smells like pee, everywhere. I always took it for granted that this was just a part of life in the city, but apparently, it isn't. Don't tell the New Yorkers.

By the time I got down to the park (cup of coffee in hand), I had to pee like a pregnant woman awaiting an ultrasound. I saw a restroom sign leading to an underground bathroom. Of course, I kept sipping my coffee.

Underground bathroom.... bladder exploding... it was a tough choice. In New York, you just don't go into public bathrooms. More than likely, it's someone's home. And they're not happy about it. But it was 6am and the park was empty (also not good), so I decided to go. I made eye contact with a passing park worker, and sent him desperate telepathic messages to call 911 if I wasn't out in 20 minutes.

I walked downstairs - into a maze. Christ. Bad, bad, bad. I will undoubtedly interrupt someone's covert drug deal, and die.

I turned a corner. I turned another corner. The instincts in my body that are telling me to run are floating in a sea of pee, and I can't hear them screaming.

I see a sign for the ladies' room, and I walk into......

The cleanest public bathroom I have ever seen in my life.

I would have cheerfully given birth in there.

I bet this is where Oprah goes to pee.

I then walked around downtown Chicago for another hour or so. At 6am, I passed six Starbucks that were not yet open for business. Don't you need coffee most at 6am? There weren't that many people walking around. I stopped to watch the ABC news broadcast, as did a few construction workers. I tried not to wonder how much weight was hanging off of the cranes behind me as they tried to get glimpses of the newscasters.

Satisfied that I had ventured past the two-block radius between my hotel, and my job, I headed back for a shower.

Thankfully, Leann drove in that night, and we went out for beers & dinner and then spent approximately 12 hours looking for the Sears tower.

"What?!" you wonder to yourself. "Downtown Chicago is not that big. And the Sears Tower is one of the tallest buildings in the United States!" Well, shut up, asshole. You could also add that it has the words "Sears Tower" in giant letters across the side, but you're not being particularly helpful, and the point of the story is, we couldn't find it.

Granted, Leann just buried her fiance over the weekend and therefore wasn't really able to put together a whirlwind sightseeing tour, but her new situation as a widow is surprisingly hysterical. She practically has a whole new repetoire of dead boyfriend knock-knock jokes.

Knock knock.

No, I can't do it. I'll totally wet my pants.

Home again. :)

Goodbye, airport!! Hel-looooooo..... AIRPORT!!

Tomorrow is the last day of my time with the County. I feel like I'm leaving lock-up. I've been blasting music all week and taking two hour lunches and doing very little to "ease the transition" as I referred to in my resignation letter.

Everyone really appreciated the 6,000 times I played "Born Free" and did pirouettes in my cubicle. Especially TGLETSITCAFM. Who muttered incoherently to himself the entire time.

I'll still be seeing everyone... I'll just be a screaming, irate passenger on my way to the Caribbean. :)

Pasta like a rock star

The Kid picked up a pair of sunglasses over the weekend, and every time she put them on and looked at me, I sang "Lemon" by U2.

Here's some photos from her Sunday dinner. Hit "Play" on the video below for the full effect.

OK, she didn't really eat that entire thing. I took most of it home in a small box. But she did eat a lot of it.

At least a third of her body weight, I believe.

I love Gomez.

The Kid has been sick since last week, with a variety of ailments. Yesterday she came home and promptly threw up everything she's ever eaten. I have slept approximately 2 - 3 hours a night over the past few days, just listening for the "Mooooooommy....". I am exhausted and nonsensical.

But holy cow, I love Gomez. They're opening for the Fray in Atlanta in July, and since I couldn't get up to the big ATL last week like I wanted to, it would be great to fly up for Gomez. And when all else fails, at least I have YouTube.

I just have to get this out. Then I'm going to the park and forgetting it.

Every once in a while, I lose it. I'm not proud. Single parenting is hard, and I'm no superhero.

I haven't paid my rent yet. Summer camp for the Kid was more money than I have laying around (thirty-six cents is the amount of money I have laying around, in case you were wondering). I pay for daycare, rent, gas, the electric bill, phone bills, car insurance, food. It all comes out to slightly more than I make in a month. Somehow, we manage.

The Kid's dad makes more money than I do, but never has any money. I discovered it's because he's paying off his debt. Which is admirable, and he'll be a better position in the future to provide for his daughter, but I am scraping by, with minimal help from him. I am scraping so bad, you can hear it. It sounds like a ton of rusty metal on rusty metal. Scraping.

I don't mind not being wealthy. I would prefer to be wealthy, but I'm not suffering. I'm not sleeping in a bathroom in a subway station or living in a homeless shelter. I have a car, a job, a roof over my head. My kid is happy. But for my kid to be happy, her mother has to juggle bills, plead for extensions, take the hit of an interest payment, beg, and borrow. And beg. And borrow.

I called her dad yesterday to tell him that summer camp was a bigger hit than I expected to take, and I would appreciate it if he could throw anything he could my way. Which is when I found out that things are tight for him because he's paying off his past debt.

Which brings me to the only point I'm going to make on this subject today. I get that there's things that you're trying to take care of. I get that your week is busy, and that you don't always "remember" to send that weekly amount. Your weekly amount is a FRACTION of the cost of providing for your child. And when you "forget" to send that amount that I HATE picking up the phone and asking you for, YOUR CHILD GOES WITHOUT. Your child will never go without food. There is nothing that I wouldn't do to provide for her, and I am surrounded by people that would never let this happen. But if I don't get it from you, it still has to be gotten. I have to juggle, and calculate, and distract, and entertain, and go without. So it's great that you're repaying your debt. But when do you repay your debt to me, the woman raising this happy, well-adjusted, funny, caring, intelligent child with the fantastic manners that you have come to love and cherish so much? These years aren't the greatest for me. I'm doing everything I can to not be stressed out around my child. It isn't easy, and I'm not always successful. How much does that come to, and when do you repay that?

Don't worry, you don't have to think about it. I already have the answer for you.

You don't.

Rightie, tightie, leftie, loosie...

Every hurricane season, my car's tires turn into nail magnets. It's incredible. If you don't believe me, you can ask my mechanic, Georgie. Who's in the process of buying his third home. Now, that's a lot of flat tires. You're welcome, Georgie.

Three days ago, I noticed my tire was getting a little flat. I put some air in it. The next day, flat. Nail. I know the symptoms. I could swing by and see Georgie on Saturday, so I decided to just keep putting air in it.

Saturday morning. The Kid and I head outside for a quick lesson on how to change a car tire. My dad wouldn't let me start driving until he was sure I could change a tire by myself. An excellent lesson. No reason the Kid can't start ahead of the game.

I jack up the car, pull off the tire, and pull the spare out of the trunk. I press it with a finger. Nice and tight. Hooray for preparation! I pull it out of the trunk, wheel it over to the wheel well, and .... what the hell is that noise? I hear a faint hiss. I roll the spare over. The hiss gets louder. A giant nail is sticking out of my spare tire. I pull out the nail and the tire sounds like an untied balloon that someone just let go.

Are. you. kidding. me.

Saturday. Shot.

At least the Kid is learning the important stuff.

Somewhere in Asia, there's a voodoo doll with my name on it

I'm calling India.

YAAAAAYYYY!!!!!

Please wait for a site operator to respond.

You are now chatting with 'Rick'

Rick: Hi Mary,

Rick: Welcome to Snapfish Live Help. How may I help you please?

Mary: I just placed an order to be picked up at a local Walgreen's. I ordered 3 4x6 prints, and the preview showed the 6-inch side on the top and bottom, with a white border. These were not the photos I picked up. I need these for a birthday gift. Why is the preview different from the end product?

Rick: Please give me a moment.

Rick: I suggest you to write an email to service@snapfish.com so that our representatives will handle this issue and provide with the solution.

Mary: I did. However, I need this by tomorrow morning, and I received a message that I would get a response in 1 - 2 business days.

Rick: I am sorry, i can not provide you instant help on this matter, as this is related to technical section.

Rick: As this is concerned to technical department, we request you to write an email to service@snapfish.com

Mary: What can you help with?

Rick: Ok then.

Rick: I will forward this to our superior level representatives and they will take this in to consideration.

Mary: That doesn't make sense. If I'm trying to place an order, and live help is offered, I'd like to know what you can help with.

(no response)

Mary: Hello?

Rick: I certainly regret any inconvenience on this matter.

Mary: There is a button on the webpage. It says "Got questions? live help". What do you do?

(no response)

Mary: You don't really do anything, do you.

(no response)

Mary: Thank you, Rick. I'll be sure to send another letter to Snapfish to let them know why I took my business elsewhere.

Rick: The True Digital size, 4x5.3 option will pop up after you check out from the shopping cart and select the shipping method.

Rick: If any of the 4x6 photos in the cart are already edited, the True Digital option will not pop up.

Rick: Also if you select the pick up option, the True Digital option will not be available.

Mary: Suddenly, you have answers.

Take that, Snapfish.

FINALLY, a day off

I've had this song in my head all morning.

I have a five-day weekend this week. The Kid hasn't been feeling well, and I had some sick days I needed to use up before my last day with the County. We're both getting some much needed rest and "me time".

I'm off for a long, long walk in the woods.

I've got mail

I got a postcard in the mail today from a girl I love, containing a single-line message intended to encourage, support, and kick my ass a little.

My life is filled with amazing people. I have an amazing group of girlfriends. Some near, some far. Some who have woken up to the sight of my butt sticking out of their fridge and a muffled, "Got any beer?", and some who have not yet had the pleasure. Most of them have held my hand through my darkest hours. None of them ask for anything in return. All of them have touched my heart and made me laugh out loud.

I am a rich woman.

I think it's time to up my meds.

I have come to the realization (somewhere out there, a small faction of my more sarcastic friends are smacking themselves in the forehead. Thanks.) that I rent a lot of movies and read a lot of books about relationships because I don't have time for therapy, and I have no idea what I'm doing.

Imagine Me and You. Just watched it yesterday. About a perfectly lovely couple; warm, intelligent, sweet, caring, who really seem to be best friends. They get married, and at their wedding, she meets her future lesbian life partner, having absolutely no inkling prior to that moment that she had any sort of a latent homosexual tendency. Marriage - fucked. Husband - crushed. Big gigantic theatrical wedding - down the tubes for all involved.

Next.

Volver. Watched it a few days ago. The man is married to Penelope Cruz, and decides to sleep with his step-daughter. Which leaves me with an overwhelming sense of doom and hopelessness, because if someone married to Penelope Cruz doesn't devote his entire existence to just staying married to Penelope Cruz, then it's merely a drunken crapshoot for the rest of us, isn't it.

The Lake House. Love is entirely possible, especially if a rip in the fabric of time, Keanu Reeves, and a glass house are involved. Whatever possessed me to rent that movie, I just don't know.

The Holiday. Holy menstrual cycle, Batman, this is getting embarrassing. OK, Cameron Diaz is a successful, capable (snigger, guffaw) movie producer... oh, fuck it. This one just makes no sense from the get-go. Moving right along. PS, it sucked.

And after a rapid glance through my Netflix queue in a desperate search for something not starring Matt Damon,... Born into Brothels. An Oscar-winning documentary. Gorgeous. And which has very little to do with relationships, other than while you're sitting there reading the paper and drinking your coffee and twiddling your wedding ring, there are still people out there who will pay to have sex with children.

The world is a horrible place.

I will die alone.

I'll be curled up in a fetal position under my blanket if anyone needs me.

Hey, the TV really does tell the truth

I’ve been living without TV for a couple of months now. PBS is one of four channels I can see on my cable-less television, and it’s reception is the clearest. So this weekend, I found myself watching a PBS show on skincare.

The show featured a “medical doctor from Cornell University”, who talked about skin and what you could do to reverse the aging process. There were a few easy steps, she said, and you just needed to give yourself five minutes a day to see improvement.

- You needed to clean your skin with a serum that the skin could absorb.

I have no idea what that means.

- You also had to use a toner.

Whenever I buy toner, I’m convinced for about three days that this is the missing link to my next Vogue cover. Then it sits in the back of my cabinet, unused, for approximately three years. Feh. I decide to skip the toner.

- Then there was something about a cream.... or a moisturizer, or a lipid-based serum, ...and then "sealing your skin with a water-based serum" ...or cream.

Again, I have no idea where we’re going with this serum stuff.

Pass.

She then discussed the merits of exfoliation. With a brush. Ow. She talked about the damage your skin can amass; liver spots, lines, wrinkles, enormous pores, thin skin, sagging skin, sallow skin…. Jeez. I get up and peer into my bathroom mirror. My skin is fine.

The medical doctor from Cornell was wearing a nicely tailored suit, a string of pearls, and she had long, curled, blonde hair pulled off her face. She spoke softly and gently and used a lot of small, sweeping hand gestures in which I could picture countless, toner-laden cotton balls.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked the camera and her studio audience.

I looked at her long, curling, blonde hair that was a blatant attempt to look like a six-year old.

“Fifty-five”, I thought to myself. She’s in a panic about her age, obviously. And who wears pearls? And that hair! Get an age-appropriate haircut! What are you, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?

“I am fifty-two years old”, she announced, proudly. I mentally shaved her head.

Later that night, I’m getting ready for bed, and I decide to devote five minutes of my day to reversing the aging process of my skin. I skim through the doctor’s list in my mind. Cleansing… blah, blah, blah… exfoliation…. serum, lipid, pass, pass. I pick up a washcloth and some soap and I decide to wash the makeup off my face before I go to bed.

The next day, I get up, stumble into the bathroom, flick on the switch… and I am aglow. My pores are refined, my cheeks are rosy, and I don’t have eyeliner and smeared mascara all over my face.

Thank you, television.

Tropical Depression Day Two -- Electric Boogaloo

I was enjoying the rain.

I was enjoying it until I reset my clocks for the third time. They've been blinking "12:00" for about eight hours now.

It's a tropical depression, not an actual storm.

It's also hurricane season.

In F-l-o-r-i-d-a.

So why is it, in the land of the hurricane, do I need to reset every clock in the house every time it drizzles? Are the wires running into the house made out of sugar? You would think things would be a little rain-resistant.

This hurricane season is going to be a SUCKFEST.

I'm just sayin'.

I'm not as think as you drunk I am

Friday.

I left work this afternoon with a sense of euphoria.

The euphoria could be due to several factors:

1. It's fucking Friday, mate.

2. I'm two weeks away from my last day at my job.

3. I have money in the bank. This is due to my not paying rent, but I'll cross that bridge later. Woo hoo!

4. Friday.

5. After three days of weirdy, almost-raining, just-hot-and-sticky-and-gray weather, it's finally raining. I love rain.

6. God, I feel like David Letterman. OK, six. My neighbor with the apartment identical to mine, moved out. I immediately stole the screens out of her windows, and am now enjoying a mosquito-free, cats-indoors, listening-to-the-rain evening. I just stole the last one while chatting on my cell phone and padding around the apartment complex in my pajamas, wielding a butter knife in the rain. I may have scared the new neighbor who was standing outside smoking a cigarette.

7. After being angry for two years for having no time to read, I made time. I go to the library each week, and even took out a book on CD. In the beginning, I didn't think I was going to like it, because the book I chose was British, and they use funny words, like "surgery" for "doctor's office", and "pudding" for "dessert" and "marquee" for "tent", but I got over it, because the story is fantastic. I've been listening in the car, and I love it. It's "A Spot of Bother", by Mark Haddon. It's so great, that I've considered writing a letter to the author, but since each paragraph would probably have to contain some form of the sentence "I swear, I'm not crazy", I've decided that it's just not worth it. Mark Haddon is my new secret gay boyfriend. About an hour ago, my secret boyfriend was the lead singer from Level 42. I'm thinking about going to see him at Ringsted Festival for my last chance to fling myself at him as an aging groupie.

I called Kara, and when she picked up, I asked her if she thought the lead singer of Level 42 ever thought about me. She immediately said, "Yes. Because there's something about you". (It's fantastic when your two best friends have both known you since you were 12). Kara said she wanted to come to Ringsted Festival too. Since she was the third wheel on my first honeymoon, I don't see this as at all inappropriate. Plus we've both been drinking, which brings me to number 8.

8. I've been drinking. I can usually drink almost one full beer, usually leaving about two centimeters in the bottom of the bottle. And then I fall asleep.

Tonight, I came home, opened a beer, and started to make dinner. The beer was gone. I sat down at the table with the kid, and opened a second beer. Gone. I then went for the wine in the fridge. Due to the afore-mentioned euphoria, I had a strong desire to buy a German Riesling in a blue bottle, like I used to get in Germany on beer runs when I lived in Denmark.

I finished the bottle.

I even called people to ask if I sounded drunk, because I've never finished a bottle of wine before, and I felt as sober as a ... sober person. And the answer was "not at all".

Granted, the people I called was Kara, and her explanation was "but I've been drinking, so what the hell do I know...", but still, I don't feel affected. Which is strange.

Who says a top ten list has to have ten things on it?

So I've been chatting with Kara and listening to music from the 80's. And I'm happy. And it's raining, and there's a nice breeze. I can hear all of my neighbors through the open windows, but because of the drinking, I don't care.

I watched the Pursuit of Happyness tonight and cried my eyes out.

Denmark - photos

Here's a handful of our photos from a recent trip to Denmark: