On the Vessel*
June 28, 2011 at 8:53 am | Posted in float my boat, travel, why I love him | 23 CommentsMr. Darcy and I had a lovely jaunt to Friday Harbor. We set out early with a bagel for him and an egg sandwich for me and two very large iced teas. The road was free & clear because we were driving away from all the action in town (Rock ‘n Roll Marathon and Gay Pride). We made it to the ferry in plenty of time though met a crushing blow when the toll booth operator said, “That will be $65.35, please.”
Um. WHAT?
Yep, that’s what it costs to take one vehicle (driver included ) and one passenger on the ferry boat. We kind of looked at each other wide-eyed and were like, “well, we’re here and it’s vacation (of sorts).” SHRUG. GULP. We eventually loaded onto the ferry and made our way to the upper deck to the gally (is that what that area is called?) to buy a snack. TIP: Bring your own snacks because FACT: the food on the ferry is not good. Dried out pretzel anyone? By all means if you’re in the market for some stale m & m’s stop on in!
We stepped out to the deck and a gust of wind lifted the skirt of my dress and I subsequently gave anyone and everyone who might be looking a free show. Nice argyle patterned panties, Sizz. I took it in stride, tucked my skirt between my thighs and snapped a few photos. Because I’m a trooper like that.
Here's us out on the ferry deck. Not pictured: my argyle underwear. (You're welcome.)
There were wild children everywhere. It was a bit overwhelming but not as annoying as the family seated behind us having really inane conversations that I wished I could stop eavesdropping on. Mr. Darcy swears he heard the older lady say, “Oh didn’t I tell you that story? How one year we found a can of cranberries in our pantry and then after that, every year, we have cranberries with Thanksgiving dinner?” His response: “THAT IS NOT A STORY, LADY! Everyone has cranberries with Thanksgiving dinner! YOU ARE BORING.” You see why we are together. TIP: Please try having interesting conversations that we can overhear.
Well hello, Friday Habor's harbor.
We arrived at Friday Harbor in plenty of time to find some food and wander around. The weather was magnificent sunny and breezy- and the view could not be beat. There isn’t much going on in the town itself- a lot of little shops and restaurants and places to sign up for a whale watching, kayaking or boat tour. We had mediocre burgers and forgetful servers at the Blue Water Bar & Grill (take a pass on that one). We drove up to our motel and it was just a few blocks from the harbor. TIP: You don’t need a car in Friday Harbor. FACT: It will save you at least $50 if you walk onto the ferry.
The motel was nice and offered us an alternative mode of transportation. I insisted that we wear helmets because I am a killjoy like that. I’m rather fond of my brains and Mr.Darcy’s. Besides, he hadn’t ridden a bike in about 15+ years!
FACT: Beach Cruisers are hard to ride uphill.
I am used to a ten speed bike. These bikes, while rating very high in the retro cool factor, were excruciatingly uncomfortable on our, uh, parts. Something about the tilt of the seats make it painful to sit on them despite trying to adjust them. We manned up with our manly helmets on and took the streets. TIP: Beach cruisers are more fun to ride if you are A) in great shape and B) on flat land. FACT: Friday Harbor is basically one big hill. We rode a bit and found a lovely bench to kill time on so that we could fool the front desk people at the motel into thinking we actually rode the entire time we were gone. (We did not. Shhh!) This was our view:
Not a bad place to kill some time, am I right?
Here’s a little sexy for you:
FACT: Bike helmets are not sexy. But sexier than brains on the pavement.
(Mr. Darcy refuses to allow me to post a photo of him in a bike helmet. He says it makes his melon head look even bigger.)
We decided dinner was in order and after some Yelp research decided to eat at the Backdoor Kitchen. They were rated 4.5 stars and while the price seemed steep we figured we might as well just go for it. Everything is more expensive on the island since it has to be shipped in. (Or at least that’s the lie they are telling all the tourists.) (Kidding, that’s really a fact.) We walked to the restaurant only to discover that the same rowdy group of people that were disturbing the peace at the motel were there taking over half the patio dining area. Great! We found the service friendly but sporadic. The children of the rowdy group were running amok and unattended. One girl practically fell out of the bushes by our table. Yes, I am being one of those childless, judgy people but listen, you know I love kids, I just don’t approve of kids running around screaming with no adult supervision (they were busy drinking) at a 4.5 star, $$$ restaurant. The food was sadly mediocre and rather flavorless. Mr. Darcy’s cream sauce was bland. My lamb, while cooked well, wasn’t very seasoned and the sides were just so-so. We made the best of it but definitely didn’t feel the price of the bill was in line with the quality of the food.
(Here is where I discover that the second half of my post didn’t save when I originally wrote it and I check the clock realizing I don’t have time to rewrite it. DAMN IT!)
Here’s some other shots that capture the trip:
I'm on a boat! (self-portrait, of course)
Mr. Darcy's first ferry ride.
Robes were really big in the '80's.
Side note: The hotel came with robes. Mr. Darcy put one on saying, “Robes were really big in the ’80′s. My whole family used to wear them.” I inquired if he wore pjs with the robe and he responded indignantly, “OF COURSE I WORE PAJAMAS!” as if I had accused his family of being a pack of nudists.
Besides wearing robes, Mr. Darcy is great at napping. Here he is napping in style on the ferry ride home:
Hobo nap!
And of course, it’s not fun in the sun or a vacation until you have enjoyed an ice cream cone.
Best "meal" I had on the island. It was peanut butter with chocolate swirl- reminded me of my childhood.
And there you have it!
*I kept referring to the ferry as a vessel because Mr. Darcy was making fun of how I pronounce ferry. Yes, there will be a video post about this soon.
Celebrating My Tomato
June 27, 2011 at 6:10 am | Posted in birthday | 10 CommentsToday is Tomato’s birthday. I can’t be in Los Angeles to help him celebrate so I enlisted some of his dearest friends to contribute to a little celebratory video in honor of his special day. I asked them to name just one thing about him that they loved and everyone had a hard time narrowing it down to just one. That’s how loveable this guy is.
(Please note: Each picture connects the friend pictured with him to the one thing they said they love about Tomato.)
Happy birthday, my friend.
I love you!
Crossing the Water
June 24, 2011 at 7:05 am | Posted in adventures, travel | 14 CommentsMr. Darcy is going to take his first ferry ride tomorrow when we embark on our trip to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. (Remind me to tell you the story of when I first said the word “ferry” to Mr. Darcy and the conversation that followed it. In fact, he and I should just do a vlog and share it with you first-hand.)
We decided last year, in the middle of the night after being woken up by the sounds of drunk revelers from Gay Pride and the endless throbbing techno versions of songs from the likes of Madonna, Cher and Xtina, that there was no way we would stick around for that torture again. We live in the heart of the “gay neighborhood” and on a day-to-day basis I enjoy it but the weekend Pride hits it’s too loud, too crowded, too TOO. And so I will celebrate Pride from across the waters at a quiet little hotel in a big bed with no cats to bother me (bonus!).
I’m excited to stay at the Earthbox Motel and take them up on the use of free beach cruisers. Mr. Darcy has agreed to ride bikes with me! Maybe we’ll pedal out to a winery for a little tasting or just coast along checking out the town and the water. It’s a change of scenery either way and I am desperate for it. I’m sure to return with tales of our travels and photos to make you jealous.
They’re Special
June 21, 2011 at 7:22 am | Posted in float my boat, health | 23 CommentsFor the most part, the people who come to dance class are a bunch of women in all shapes, sizes, ages, and abilities who come to get their sweat on. It’s a supportive, welcoming environment where our teachers encourage us to have fun, listen to our bodies, and feel the joy that comes with movement. And I love it for all those reasons. I couldn’t help but notice a few standouts in class though. Some particularly special folks who deserve mention. . .
The “I’m a Dancer” Dancer: She has a hot body- lithe, curvy, bendy. She wears half shirts and stands right at the mirror near the teacher. She is a regular and knows the moves well. So well that she often over-exaggerates the routines to push her work out. She will spin and leap and bend back and down, glistening in sweat, watching her reflection always. She annoys the crap out of me mostly because part of me wants to be her (but with a lot less posturing).
The Inappropriate Outfit Dancer: She wears swimsuits or old leotards with her bra showing. Her ample breasts are not well supported. When she bends to stretch to the floor, you can practically see her cervix. She leaves the class a few times in the hour to visit the restroom, I assume to dislodge her skimpy clothing from her butt cheek or re-position her boobs. She makes me uncomfortable. GET SOME SWEATS, LADY.
The Lone Male Dancer: He’s the only man in a sea of ladies. He stands in back and tries to keep up. He is usually 3 steps behind and when it comes to moving his hips, he can’t seem to find them. Good for him for trying though. (Dance class is a great place to pick up chicks.)
The Wild Abandon Dancer: She thinks she is a really good dancer. As in, she’s like a maniac on the floor, “Locking rhythm to the beat of her heart/Changing movement into light/She had danced into the danger zone/When the dancer becomes the dance” but no, she really just flails and takes up too much space on a crowded dance floor. I avoid her every single class because I learned the hard way that she would encroach on my personal dance space. And, inexplicably, something about how she wiggles her butt makes me filled with ire. AVOID AT ALL COSTS.
The What’s This Song? Dancer: She’s older and doesn’t really know most of the songs. She’s not sure of the move where we gyrate our hips and chest. She goes along during the parts where we bust out some hip hop moves. She prefers when the teacher plays old soul or funk tunes. She can electric slide like nobody’s business. I hope I am still dancing at her age.
Fashion Forward, Take 1
June 20, 2011 at 7:21 am | Posted in body image, fashion, vanity | 23 CommentsA couple of people, including my friend Kim over at Kilax, have suggested I do some fashion-related posts which I will hopefully do a better job of in the future. Here’s a start.
I got this dress at Old Navy. It’s basically a housecoat but I belted it because, newsflash, housecoats aren’t flattering. As you can see, it has pockets. Dresses with pockets = Win (in my book). The yellow belt is most likely thrifted. I like that the dress is colorful and I could change out the belts I pair with it. The boots are from Target which I bought on a whim a year ago. I had never owned shoes like this before but now I have to take them into the cobbler to get repaired- I’ve worn them down from wearing them 4 times a week (understatement). I could dress this up with some yellow wedges or some blue flats. The shoe options are pretty endless and because of the colors in the dress, I can easily pull a variety of colors into my accessories. Score!
For me, dresses are simply easy, flattering, and lend variety to my wardrobe. I am drawn to dresses that I can make unique with the accessories I pair with it. I probably only wear pants once a week if you’re not including the many hours I spend in my work out clothes. I find that as a short, curvy woman my legs are better shown off in a right-below-the-knee skirt than pants. I have had a life-long battle with hating my flat butt. Pants just seem to emphasize that sad fact. Belts are a recent addition to my wardrobe but now I am addicted. I think cinching at the smallest part of my body draws the eye there and is far more flattering than wearing a loose shirt that hides my curves. Besides, I have an, uh, ample chest, so if I don’t wear something that shows my smaller waist I tend to look as big as my biggest area (my rack) which is not a look I am going for. I am drawn towards big earrings since I have very little hair. I like how they draw the eye to my neck and face.
My advice to those of you seeking wardrobe inspiration is to try something on that might be out of your comfort zone and see how it looks on you. YOU HAVE TO TRY THINGS ON. If it doesn’t fit right, it’s not your body’s fault. Try a different size or style. If you’re clueless about fashion or feel you are in a rut, take a friend who enjoys that sort of thing or whose style you admire, and listen to their advice. It can be hard to change how you view yourself but it can also be life changing. The number one thing that makes a person attractive? Confidence. We’ll talk more about that in my next fashion-related post. Stay tuned!
Speaking of confidence-
It’s hard to convey with this split photo but I have done it again, chopped my hair into a pixie. Sometimes I shock myself when I look in the mirror- “Whoa! Where did my hair go?”- but for the most part, I like it. I don’t know what it is but when my hair is super short I feel really bad ass.
Find An Open Hand
June 16, 2011 at 7:08 am | Posted in flashback, light bulb moments, my neurosis, processing | 15 CommentsWhen everyone has gone to sleep and you are wide awake
there’s no one left to tell your troubles to.
Just an hour ago, you listened to their voices
lilting like a river over underground
and the light from downstairs came up soft like daybreak
dimly as the heartache of a lonely child.
My father would awake in a lonely chair out in the living room most nights, all of us in our separate rooms having long since turned away from the sight of him slumped and slack-jawed, drunk and vacant. Sometimes I would still be awake when he made his way from the living room to the bedroom. I’d hear the door to the hallway open and he’d stumble along in a vodka-induced haze, still struggling against the dark that he was not yet accustomed to but had to live with daily, even in daylight.
There was a rail that ran along the middle of the wall and he’d slide his hand along it as he made his way. My bedroom was first and I would often lie there listening to him, the hand dragging, dragging, until he’d get to my door. Sometimes he’d pause there, hovering, waiting, and I would hold my breath. And when he’d move on, I’d feel a mix of relief and deep despair.
I missed my dad long before he passed away.
Other times I’d still be up reading in my bed and I, with heart racing, would reach over to shut off the light at the first sound of the door opening. I’d lie there in guilt and darkness and sadness. The weight of it heavier than 1,000 blankets piled upon me.
The times I didn’t turn my light off, he’d catch glimmer of it slicing under the door and would give a gentle knock before cracking the door open. He’d search the room with his one eye with the tunnel of good vision for my shape.
“It’s late, you should go to sleep.”
“I will after I finish this chapter.”
Silence.
“Ok.”
The distance between us felt the expanse of the Grand Canyon in my heart. I don’t know how else to convey the cavernous sorrow of that situation.
If you can’t remember a better time
you can have mine, little one.
In days to come when your heart feels undone
may you always find an open hand
and take comfort wherever you can.
This memory arose from the ashes during a conversation about comfort. I’m not particularly adept at finding comfort in others. I spent a lot of time in my bedroom during all that turmoil listening to music, reading poetry, writing in my journal. That’s why people can now say to me “you’re so good at expressing how you feel in words” – I am in writing thanks to all those years of my journal being my place of refuge. I may be an extrovert but there are big parts of me that are introverted, that only feel comfortable entirely alone. My tween/teen years weathered more than just the regular hormonal angst. The cycle of alcoholism that whirled our house into its destructive tornado left me at a loss for solid footing.
So cry, why not? we all do
then turn to one you love
and smile a smile that lights up all the room.
Follow your dreams in through every out-door
it seems that’s what we’re here for.
I forget about Father’s Day. I was 18 the last time we would have celebrated it and I can’t recall what, if anything, we did for my dad that day. He wasn’t living with us. I barely talked to him. I feel so sad thinking of all the memories we didn’t get to make because his alcoholism took center stage. I feel so mad that I don’t have a dad, that my dad stopped really being my dad years before he died. The times when I did have him are so distant in my mind, those memories are hard to grasp. I know my dad loved me the best he could. I just can’t stop wishing life had played out differently for him so I could have had more time with him, maybe hugged his frail body again, held his rough, tanned hand, looked into his gray blue eyes and said, “I love you”. And he would have replied, “love ya, too”. I just know it.
***
Lyrics from Deb Talan’s song “Comfort” which was the only thing I wanted to hear after my therapy session last night. Thanks for writing that song, Deb.
Bedtime Hijinx
June 14, 2011 at 7:24 am | Posted in funny bone, pillow talk, why I love him | 9 Comments“Is that a doll? Where did it come from?”
“It’s been on the shelf above your head since before you moved in, Mr. Observant.”
“Really? Hmm. Dolls creep me out.”
“Right. It’s going to come alive and EAT YOUR FACE OFF.”
He gives me A Look and leaves the room to go to the bathroom.
I promptly get up and put the doll on his nightstand.
***
We are lying in bed chatting. Dottie is running around being a maniac.
“Where is she?”
“She’s hiding under the . . . window carpets.”
“Uh, the what?!”
“. . . (thinking). . .The drapes!”
“You mean the CURTAINS?”
“Yes, those things.”
I grab my phone.
“This is going to be tweeted, huh?”
Of course it is.
***
This is how we love each other.
Creative Collaboration
June 13, 2011 at 6:09 am | Posted in crafty, why I love him | 40 Comments“I have this idea but I need your help,” I say to my artist boyfriend, the one and only, Mr. Darcy.
“Okay. . . what is it?” he replies with a hint of skepticism in his voice.
“I want to take a small canvas and paint caricatures of us on it then add two hooks underneath to hang our keys,” I explain enthusiastically.
“Sure! Sounds cute.” (I love my agreeable boyfriend.)
Weeks later we finally got the canvas and Mr. Darcy had the time to create. We have different ideas about colors but we ended up compromising. Here’s the finished product greeting us in our hallway.
Stop. Collaborate & Listen.
I’m great at coming up with ideas and he’s great completing them. Our differences balance each other out, luckily.
Finnisms
June 10, 2011 at 6:20 am | Posted in my nephew is awesome | 12 CommentsMy family has taken to emailing tidbits that Finn says that are too priceless not to pass on. Here’s a recent one sent in by Double B:
Today I kicked a bottlecap as he was riding his bike and he said, “Hey you kicked a bottlecap, Pops! That’s good luck!” Oh yeah? Says I, I wonder what type of luck I’ll have… “Well hopefully a donut falls from the sky onto your head.”
Related: Finn rode his bike without training wheels for the first time last weekend. I got all teared up when I watched the video my sister sent of it. Wasn’t he just a little tyke I was teaching to say “wassup”?
Finding Joy, #2
June 8, 2011 at 6:52 am | Posted in health, joy | 19 CommentsThere is something new awakening in my body. A body I have abused my entire life- berating it for being less than beautiful with its fatness, its shortness, its flub and lack of grace. A body I have spent more time loathing than loving. But something shifts when I step onto the dance floor of my Nia studio. It’s like my spirit takes a long, deep breath.
As we move from warm ups to more rigorous cardio routines that mix kicks and punches with dance moves, I feel more and more alive and centered. I can see myself in the mirror along with the other women but there is less judgement. We’re all different in shapes and sizes and abilities. We’re all there to express ourselves through movement, find joy in dance and get our sweat on. I am often the biggest woman in the class but I pick a spot near the front where I can see myself in the mirror and have a clear view of the instructor. Months ago, I was in the back. Me and my fear and shame were in the back row, ambling along, feeling on the outskirts. But now I am front and center and I get more out of the class in that position. And I do not feel like I need to apologize for my body. I dance my fucking heart out and love every minute of it.
Sure, there are times in class where I am not feeling my best- my rhythm is off that day, my energy is low, or I am preoccupied- but I stick it out and at the end I have accomplished something. I’m laying on the dance floor, limbs glistening with sweat, my face red and shining, completely spent and simultaneously so alive. It is an amazing feeling.
My body is getting stronger and my shape is changing. Maybe I am not dropping pounds as I would like but I can feel my leg muscles getting more toned and my abs tightening. I stand taller and move more freely. I feel good in my body when I am dancing and that is no small thing.
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