So my brother CJ is at some kind of rah rah leadership conference or whatever (let’s not dwell, since this blog is about me, not him) and asked me to help him with a perception exercise. After giving him my invaluable feedback, I decided to try the same exercise with myself, and see if I could come up with any helpful insights about my own psyche.
Here we go…
List 5 things you do best when listening:
Make myself relevant to the story while the other person yammers on
Pretend I’m a talk show host
Practice raising one eyebrow
Look around for something, or someone, more interesting
Kindly let the other person know they’ve already told me this story and I’m bored
List 5 things you could do better when listening:
Listen
Care
Exhibit genuine emotion
Listen
Hear
List 5 things you do best with humor:
Entertain the masses
Showcase my sparkling wit
Illustrate my intellectual grasp of complex issues
Reflect upon how funny I really am
Feel sorry for others that they lack my cleverness
List 5 things you don’t do well with humor:
Funerals
Sad things
Stuff other people don’t find funny
Funerals
Serious things
I feel like I’ve really captured the essence of me. Give it a try and let me know what you find clarity on about yourself!
I’m not sure how many blog posts I’m going to milk out of the cruise, but there is much to be told.
Cruising reminded me a lot of summer camp. There are Activities Staff all over the place and a daily newsletter reminding us to play bingo! Join a team for trivia! Sing karaoke! Check out our version of X game show! There’s singing, dancing, magicians, an aerial show, a 70s night, a sock hop, a calypso party at the pool. Time to limbo everybody! It’s as if we are all small children with a short attention span (which is not to say that we aren’t). A lot of the activities are really fun, but sometimes it’s just a lot coming at you all at once.
Calypso Party!
Aerial Show
YMCA at 70s Night
Another Aerial Show!
There are field trips in each port of call. Join the shopping excursion! The Hemingway tour of Key West! Learn how to scuba/snorkel/jet ski/water ski/parasail/other ways to injure and embarrass yourself.
And then, people. Strange people. Well, not necessarily strange, but at a bare minimum, strangers. You’re around them all the time, forced together any time you’re in the dining room, in particular. You fall in to the fine art of non-committal small talk.
But unlike camp, these are probably not people with whom you will stay a pen pal for many years, and one day become FaceBook friends when things like the interwebs and social media are invented. There is no pretense that you will stay in touch beyond the cruise, and no reason to, because you have nothing in common, and possibly you find the other person, well, uncommon. For example, one woman we had lunch with a couple of times expounded on the virtues of Ben Carson. He is measured, reasonable, smart (umm, OK); and bonus round (!), a Washington outsider. As if someone who doesn’t know the first thing about politics or how to get deals done on the Hill is somehow uniquely qualified to do exactly that for the next four years, or lord help us, eight years. Her second choice is Ted Cruz, but she’s not sure.
So, my tongue now has several distinct holes in it where I was biting it to keep from slapping her and asking “What the f*ck are you thinking? Snap out of it!” I picture it as kind of a Cher in Moonstruck moment, but we all know that in reality I would be facing assault charges. And at a minimum, it would certainly have made the rest of the meal awkward. So there I sat, with a crooked smile frozen on my face, while Dan squeezed my hand, hard, presumably as a reminder that this was not the time nor the place to be, umm, me.
Our dinner companions were quite nice, and we enjoyed chatting with them, but the third couple who were assigned to our table didn’t come back after the first night. We assume they asked for a table reassignment but none of us are sure why, or what we might have done to offend them that first night beyond asking them to pass the butter.
There are even staff who function basically as camp counselors. Our cabin attendant Gloria, and dinner servers Randolph and Velma, became our confidantes, and the source of inside information on how to get the best of the cruise. Randolph and Velma brought us special treats from the dining room, and Gloria crafted adorable towel animals to surprise and delight us each evening. Frankly, if we were going to stay in touch with anyone, it would be those three, who made our cruise really fun.
Towel Monkey suspended from the ceiling!
Towel Elephant!
Towel Piggy!
The bottom line is, we had a lot of fun, despite the Tender #12 fiasco. And we may decide to cruise again. But then again, we may not. Either way, you will be subjected to hearing about it, in agonizing detail. You’re welcome.
We had big plans for the day. A beach day at Royal Caribbean’s private island in the Bahamas, CocoCay. We were told that the ship had to anchor offshore and tenders (small boats) would be taking us to the island. We should have smelled trouble right then and there.
When we got up in the morning the weather was beautiful. The sun was glistening off the water. We donned swimsuits, flip flops and hats. We slathered on sunscreen and mosquito repellent (that whole Zika virus thing). We packed more sunscreen and more repellent. We were ready.
There was a process for getting two thousand people off a big boat on to a bunch of small boats. Tender tickets. Our fate that morning was to draw Tender #12.
The ticket that determined our fate
When our number was called we got on the tender and made the 5 minute trip to the island without incident. But…what happened to the sun? The skies darkened and it started raining buckets. About 30 of us had already gotten off the boat and dashed for shelter. Others stayed on the boat. We all waited for what we hoped would be a quick storm to pass through. But nothing was quick and nothing was passing. In fact, it was getting darker and rainier. After about 30 minutes of standing around, we were herded back on to the tender we’d just stepped out of.
Back into the tender, and the trip back to the ship was rough. Choppy water, waves slopping in over the sides.
An angry sea indeed. The tender finally pulled up alongside the ship, but was bouncing up and down so violently that the crew was unable to secure the ropes and lower the gangplank. A couple of times they got us tied up and then the ropes tangled and we were once again unattached to the ship. Finally, after about 20 minutes they got us tied up and lowered the gangplank. They rushed a few people onto the ship and then held everyone else back. Moments later, the rope tying up the boat came loose, and the gangplank separated from the tender and fell into the water, attached to the ship on the other end by just a few ropes. [INSERT DRAMATIC MUSIC HERE].
Everyone on the tender gasped in unison. Well, mostly in unison. Some people were a little slow on the uptake and had to be reminded we were in a life threatening situation and gasping was not just expected, but the polite thing to do. Seated next to me was a man with a Chihuahua tucked into a bag, just its head poking out. That dog looked at me, and I looked at that dog, and we telepathically reassured each other. Or something like that. I looked around and saw some children I thought perhaps should be sacrificed before the dog, if it came right down to it.
The actual tender we were on, but pic is from a different day. Duh.
I realized I should do what any sane person would do in this situation; take out my iPhone and video the action. And many others were doing exactly that. But honestly, I wasn’t ready to sacrifice my phone to the waves that were slopping over the sides. And we were sliding around quite a bit, trying to hold on as the boat was thrown around. Nope, I was prepared to go down with my phone still in its little Ziploc bag.
BTW, Dan and I had not been able to get seats together so we were separated by two rows. He kept looking back at me and smiling helpfully. It was clear he thought this was a fine adventure. I resolved to kill him if we got out of this thing alive.
Meanwhile, we made at least another six attempts at tying up to the ship again, each starting with crashing directly into the ship, and each ending badly. The crew would get us tied and everyone would cheer. The rope would come loose and everyone would say “aaaaaaahhhhhh”. Women screamed. Children cried. The dog yawned. I clutched my beach bag, staring straight ahead, trying desperately not to get sick. Also, I may have forgotten to mention that I needed to pee. Badly.
So that is how more than two hours passed with us stuck on the high seas in a tiny boat with 200 other frightened people. I was impressed that no one panicked, which kept the kids calm. I smiled and told a terrified little girl that this whole thing was totally normal. Happens all the time! She stared daggers at me, not buying my story whatsoever. Fine. At least the dog still believed in me. As far as I could tell.
Finally, the boat backed away from the ship and started puttering around. We weren’t sure what was happening, but as it turns out we were going over to the other side of the ship to try and tie up on what we could only hope was the calmer side. Ropes flew, gangplanks dangled. At long, long last, we were secured to the side of the ship. The gangplank was far from steady and crew were hurrying us along across it. Dan was trying to help me and I guess sort of cut in front of a woman who was outraged and said “what ever happened to women and children first?” We were in a hurry, but not so much that I didn’t take a moment to turn around and glare at her. And not just any old glare, I mustered up my patented ice cold, born to kill glare. Then I turned around and scurried off the boat and into the first bathroom I could find, because of that whole thing of needing to pee for more than two hours. Then I went to check on the dog. And Dan, I guess. Both were fine.
What you should know is that this is the true to life telling of our adventure that day, but around the ship, the tale grew taller. The boat nearly capsized! Two children were lost at sea but they saved the dog! You know, the usual. Many experts were also born that day. Mostly men of course, men who knew exactly what should have been done and where things went wrong. Men who had never done more than commandeer a row boat on a calm lake suddenly knew plenty about ropes and mooring and other nautical type stuff.
We calmed down. We bemoaned the fact that we had missed lunch. We went up to the pool since we already had bathing suits and hats and sun screen and mosquito repellent. And as I was floating around in the pool, grateful that we were safely back on the ship, I heard some men laughing behind me. I heard what they were saying and had a good chuckle myself…
Royal Caribbean generously loaned us beach towels in port but we were responsible for bringing them back or we would be charged $25 per towel. Folks had gotten into the habit of holding on to the damn towels. So here’s what the men said; they said that in Tender #12, when things were at the absolute worst, brave men were clinging to their towels. But not their wives. Wives, they reasoned, could be replaced, possibly even during the course of the cruise. But towels? Nope. Nobody was going to be stuck with that $25 fee.
So we lived through it, had a few chuckles, missed an entire beach day. But We The People Of Tender #12, The Brave Souls Of Tender #12, The Rugged Survivors Of Tender #12, The Brave Dog Of Tender #12; we know what it’s like to get salt water in our eyes and stare at the horizon so as not to puke. We know.
I would climb any mountain, ford any stream, spare no expense, and employ just about any tired cliché to bring you a Quality Blog Experience. That is why I have sacrificed so much in order to travel to the Bahamas and Key West to hunt and gather new material. Material that may well be found on a sunny beach. Or in a fruity drink. Or while I’m floating on a mat in turquoise waters.
We just got off a ginormous cruise ship with two thousand other pasty people looking for a little fun in the sun. Truth be told, cruising on a giant liner is not my first choice of vacation. Not my second or even my third. But traveling is a bit more complicated for me these days, and flying is difficult. So we chose a vacation that sailed out of Baltimore, just an hour’s drive away. No flying involved. And it has been pointed out to me that it’s obnoxious to bitch about going to the Caribbean in the middle of the winter. To which I say, what’s your point?
Someone also pointed out that last February’s vacation wasn’t exactly ideal either. OK, OK. On to this year. Yes, our beach days were rainy. Yes, we were nearly lost at sea (that’s a tad dramatic, but so was our experience, which will soon be detailed right here). Yes, we sailed on Royal Caribbean, the same line that brought 30’ seas and near death to six thousand people just one week before our own voyage. And yes, we sailed into territory now held by Zika Mosquitos. But the bottom line is, I brought back tales to tell from Grandeur of the Seas.
I’ve been blogging again for well over a month now. It’s arduous, but I keep at it because I am no quitter. So even if I have nothing interesting to offer, I just keep on going. A minor problem like a lack of interesting topic will never stop me!
Still, for you my dear readers, I will go to great lengths to present the freshest topics, in the most delightfully humorous way possible. And that is why I will be doing research over the next ten days or so and will not be able to blog. I know, I know, it’s terribly upsetting and disappointing and you’re wondering how you can possibly go on without me. But I am trying my hand at Method Blogging. I will be the blog. I will become one with the blog. I will pour my heart and soul into delivering higher quality blogs. It’s all for you.
In the meanwhile, it wouldn’t kill you guys to throw me a bone. Something from which I might be able to eke out a couple of uproarious paragraphs. Just sayin’
As usual, a day late and a dollar short, but figured I’d post anyway. I’m Jewish but should have been more worldly; I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t know the first thing about Ash Wednesday until I was a young adult. Many years ago I was at work and told my friend Carla she had a smudge on her forehead she needed to wipe off. That’s when I learned about Ash Wednesday!
I figure today is a good day for a rerun of a prior blog comparing Mardi Gras to Carnevale. And I added some photos below so it doesn’t seem like I was just totally lazy…
My hair. When women say that, there is a certain inflection, a certain tone that lets others know that it is a complex topic, wrought with self-doubt that has never quite been assuaged despite the thousands and thousands (and thousands) of dollars one has spent on hair care products.
My hair is naturally curly. But not the adorable kind of naturally curly. More like the frizzy, tangled, completely non-adorable kind. I’ve written about it before; herehere and here.
When I was in high school and college I dabbled in chemical straighteners, but eventually gave those up and just went with the flow. Still, for special occasions I always loved to get a blow-out and have straight hair at least for a couple of days.
And then, along came a new treatment. No chemicals, just glorious smoothing. What I especially love is the name of this particular treatment: my hair is Disciplined. It needed to be brought into line for sure. It needed a good talking to and perhaps even a time out. Now that my hair is Disciplined I am able to blow dry it reasonably straight and smooth. And as long as it does not come into contact with any moisture, it behaves.
How I imagine I look with Disciplined Hair
How I actually look
Of course, when my hair runs around with the wrong crowd, Rain and Humidity, it follows their bad example and becomes unruly.
My hair’s propensity to become un-Disciplined is a constant concern. So in addition to the treatments every few months, I use a specific smoothing shampoo and conditioner. Just recently I noticed the label that says my conditioner is specifically designed for Rebellious Hair. That’s when it hits me. My hair has grown up; it has gone from an unruly child to an incorrigible teenager.
I realize how quickly time has passed and yet know that deep down, my hair is still un-disciplined and completely rebellious. All grown up and yet still misbehaving. I blink back the tears, thinking of my baby. Or maybe that’s just shampoo in my eyes.
I thought the war on drugs was about hard core stuff like heroin and cocaine, but I’m willing to bet either of those would be easier to get than the prescription medications that keep me breathing. For that, insurance companies cooked up a special hell called the “specialty pharmacy.” Mine is CareMark.
CareMark exists in a place where there are lots of phones that no one answers. I think because they are busy recording messages for the phone tree that eventually leads you right back where you started, without ever having a human interaction. This is a problem because I have to order my meds every 30 days, to be sent overnight, or I don’t get them at all. We can’t run down to the local pharmacy and grab an emergency supply. The really good, expensive drugs are in Ft. Knox somewhere and I’m pretty sure only 2 people know how to open the vault.
CareMark’s automated system actually calls me every month to remind me to refill my three prescriptions which of course can only be accomplished by speaking with a real human on their end. So I follow the instructions to speak with such a being, and typically have little luck before I land back in that same ugly phone tree.
The saving grace, I guess, is that CareMark Humans call me on a regular basis. The nurses call to see how I’m feeling (because they care, deeply) and to remind me how important it is that I keep plenty of medication on hand, and never miss a dose. The pharmacists call for the same reason. Apparently the nurses and the pharmacists only speak to patients, and not each other, because they are always shocked to hear that I just got off the phone with someone else on their end. Wherever that mythical place might be.
When the CareMark Humans call me to emphasize the importance of never missing a dose, I say “great, let’s order more now to be sure I don’t run out!” I mean honestly, no one is more interested than me in ensuring I don’t miss a dose. They say they too are interested in that, but in the next breath tell me it’s too early to order another 30 day supply. No one on their end seems to appreciate the irony of this when I point it out.
When I finally, finally get a Human and the timing is right to reorder, I have to answer a series of questions including confirming that I have taken a pregnancy test because apparently these drugs cause horrendous birth defects. I laugh and say “I’m 51, and I have spent my entire adult life not getting pregnant. Never wanted to be responsible for a miniature human. Trust me, I’m really good at not getting pregnant.” And they say nothing. Because they have a box they have to check off. So I sigh and tell them I have taken the pregnancy test. More silence until I also add that it was negative.
And every single time I manage to speak to a CareMark Human, regardless of whether I called them or they called me, I have to run through my DOB and shipping address to prove that I’m really me. As if someone would willingly put themselves through this torture if their life didn’t depend on it.
But there is other Human interaction. CareMark sends a nurse to my house, usually when I start a new med or change the dosage. They take about 15 minutes to listen to my heart and lungs, take my blood pressure, and talk me through the complex process of taking three pills a day. They then spend 45 minutes at my kitchen table writing up notes and asking me endless questions about my medical history. As if that isn’t on file in a million places. Of course the nurse has to run the gauntlet too. First, no coming in through the front door because my cats will try to get out, so he has to come in through the garage and mud room using our patented airlock system. Once inside, there is Janet. Janet looooooves the nurse. She loves all his stuff too, which is why she immediately gets to work licking his stethoscope and rifling through his papers.
Janet and Nurse Kevin
My nurse is a good guy but Janet is a pest. Short of locking her up I can’t keep her away from him and his stuff. So in between trying to work around her and write up his notes, he reminds me repeatedly that he is “more of a dog person.” I believe him.
So there really is a war on drugs, and even pets are getting involved. I have to get back to the front lines.
The two big events of the week, the Iowa caucuses and Groundhog Day, have me thinking. It’s sort of a Freaky Friday kind of thing, where everything is switched up and it’s hard to distinguish the top GOP candidates from the rodents who pop up and predict weather.
I have long maintained that Ted Cruz resembles nothing so much as a ferret. But it turns out that ferrets aren’t rodents, they are weasels. Donald Trump resembles more of a groundhog or other rodent. So in my mind I’ve narrowed the field down to weasels and rodents. From now until further notice when I say Weasel, granting all due respect by capitalizing, I am referring to Ted Cruz. And when I say Rodent, I am of course referring to Trump.
Both the Weasel and the Rodent foster hate for anyone who isn’t a gun-toting, white, Christian, heterosexual, but the Weasel has to at least nuance his agenda. Not a lot (!), but some. Not so the Rodent. He even ridicules his own followers, who are apparently deaf, dumb and blind. When a candidate says that he could randomly shoot someone in the street and people would still be loyal to him, the loyalists might want to stop for a moment and realize he is saying they are idiots, to the roar of their own cheers. [What do we want? An Asshole! When do we want him? Now! Why? Because!]
In my worldview, neither the Weasel nor the Rodent have even the slightest redeeming quality. But I will give them credit for one thing—they have made the rest of the party seem reasonable by comparison.
Anyway, just for fun, I challenge you to pick the top GOP candidates out of a line-up:
As I have mentioned before, ad nauseum, we have four cats: Jack, Janet, Chrissy and Mrs. Helen Roper, who just goes by Helen other than in very formal settings. And now I realize it’s just been ages since I wrote about Cat Antics. I would be remiss if I didn’t share…
A while back I wrote about Janet’s “magic paws” technique, but I wasn’t able to get good video of her in action. Well, I finally, finally captured her in the act of, I guess, trying to open a door with sheer will and perhaps a prayer. I always think of her saying “Open Sesame!” when she uses this maneuver, but I guess we’ll never really know what, or if, she’s thinking.
Of course we’ve had little time to focus on Janet’s antics lately since we noticed a problem with Helen. Helen has always been a little bit of a love biter. Or OK, maybe just a biter, but only when she’s super annoyed. She’s annoyed nearly all the time. She had a habit of walking around with her mouth wide open, looking for things to bite, mostly the other cats. And that’s how it is that we had always seen a lot of her teeth. But recently Dan looked in there and noticed an entire tooth is missing. Just gone. Not just any tooth either, we’re talking about one of her front canines. The ones that look like fangs. As a side note, how come there aren’t feline teeth? One more example of our biased dog-centric society. I blame the right wing, and possibly those nuts in Oregon. But I digress.
Back to Helen’s mouth–there is no soreness or redness, and she’s certainly not off her chow, so it’s hard to say how or when this happened, or if it even matters. Still, it’s disconcerting. And it could be my imagination but she seems a tad bit grumpier than usual. Just a tad.
My brother CJ is a dentist, in fact in his own mind he is actually a world renowned dentist. But at a bare minimum he is qualified to opine on the Helen tooth situation. Unfortunately he is a sissy and won’t stick his hand in Helen’s mouth since she keeps trying to bite it. He’s a dentist; he must get bitten all the time, right? His fully informed professional comment, without examining her mouth, is “I guess she’s OK.”
Today is CJ’s birthday, so I probably shouldn’t post a blog that disparages him. But what kind of little sister would I be if I didn’t? That folks, is the question. Also the Helen tooth thing. That is also the question.
