Weekend in Review

I wrapped up the work week on Friday by getting a grant proposal to FedEx in just the nick of time. After that, it was a mad dash to my favorite local jeweler to pick up my remixed wedding diamond before the store closed for an extended summer vacation. Because a girl just can't be expected to leave a nice sparkler in the box for long, can she? This one can't, anyway.

I had the stone re-set in a two-tone bezel setting that slides on a white gold chain. I had thought the work would take weeks, but in true Bernard fashion, the work was finished in just a few days. This was both good news and bad news: good news in that that I could begin to enjoy it, bad news in that I was also going to have to pay for it sooner than expected.

Fortunately, my credit card is everywhere it needs to be (and a few places it doesn't). And Bernard, sensing my poor, poor recently divorced but still tragically fabulous vibe, made the whole thing a little more affordable before I ponied up. I'll post a photo soon; in my rush on Friday afternoon I left the camera in my office.

I know. I feel as though I've had an important appendage amputated.

The whole Friday situation left me feeling very parched and dehydrated--a raging thirst that could only be cured by something draft or bottle. Mostly draft in my case. This meant a call to my cousin, Christa, a certain Party Wave, and a night out that after an hour or so we knew had to include karaoke. This was, perhaps, all to be expected.

What we didn't bargain far is locating the long lost Neil from "Running With Scissors" also singing karaoke. I mean, we knew he ran away from Augusten Burroughs after their traumatic and ill-fated affair, but who would guess he would run to Ernie's Sports bar in Paducah, of all places? Apparently to sing overly sincere heavy metal rock ballads slightly off key to a sparse lukewarm crowd of drunks?

Just when you think you've seen it all.

Need a refresher as to what Neil looked like? Here you go:

I'd post a photo of him at Ernie's but, trust me, there is no need. He still looks exactly like his photo above. Spookily so.

Saturday found me at an early morning appt with my stylist, Amberly, and then off for a quick trip to the mall. What? I had a COUPON.

Saturday night was a !Sushi! bonanza.

I continue my Wii Fit odyssey. I haven't quite lived up to my perhaps over zealous 5x's a week commitment, but I am keeping at it regularly. I've lost TWO WHOLE pounds with a mere 10 more to go. I'm beginning to find my Wii trainer a bit addictive and the quest to best my last scores surprisingly motivating.

The fact that my workouts typically end with me jogging around in a circle in my living room while immobilizing my breasts by pressing them to my chest with my hands as the dog gallops confusedly (and loudly) along behind is just serves to up the fun factor a notch. Yes, friends, soon I may even be able to do a whole push-up.

An event so big it requires TWO blog posts.

Misbehaving at the reception. You'll appreciate the severity of the situation when I tell you it was still light and very early when this photograph was taken.

First dance to "At Last" by Etta James. You'll be happy to know I refrained from singing along (in a nasally Chicago accent like I did that one time).

The reception hall. That is the white rose petal chandelier you see in the center of that sea of Japanese lanterns. This photo, while lovely, does not do it justice.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you...The Cake. 'Nuff said.

I did mention there were Geishas, right? Lots and lots of them bearing trays of delicious Asian treats. But MOST importantly? Later on, they served Saki. Lots and lots of that too. Which was fortunate since I was in need of much Saki. Because it famously goes so well with Tequila.

Lastly, a Bizzyville Super-Snap for Jan pictured here (left in the tux) who is, for the most part, responsible for all the photos in this post (except this last one that I snapped during my final thirty seconds of sobriety).

They Did

Apologies for my tardiness getting this posted. At some point Saturday night, it seems, I decided that drinking my weight in tequila was a really, really good idea. And I weigh a lot these days, just ask the Wii B!tch (who I completely ignored all weekend).

This behavior, not surprisingly, had the effect of putting me totally out of commission for the whole of Sunday. Or as I began to refer to it, I was "In the nursing home." Being in the Nursing Home meant that I crept out of my darkened bedroom only for those essential items: Tylenol, Diet Coke, junk food (in very small doses). Usually during these tentative ventures, it somehow worked out better with only one eye open. And my hair. Oy. It gave "bed head" a whole new meaning.

I was released from the Nursing Home some time around 5 p.m. having acquired the ability to walk with both eyes open and tolerate a head band and spectacles. I was almost fully recovered by the time Design Star aired. (8:00 p.m.).

The par-tay responsible for my delicate condition was the commitment ceremony of Laura and Bianca held on Saturday night. It was a first-class event complete with Geisha's and a chandelier constructed entirely of white rose petals the likes of which, I'd venture a guess, most in attendance had never seen. Certainly I hadn't.

The ceremony itself was unexpectedly sweet, even for a jaded divorcee such as myself. And, if you're counting, this would be my third ceremony of amore this summer.

The whole event, formal as it was, forced me (twist my arm!) to acquire a new little black cocktail dress and sparkly strappy sandals. These items were, eventually, much much later that same evening, complimented by local fashion maven William Sledd who I finally met for the first time when we actually collided at the bar of a local watering hole.

We bonded when I offered to buy him a drink and he told me he preferred shots, so I dutifully ordered us up two shots of tequila because--oh heavens no--I hadn't had anywhere NEAR enough tequila by that point (some time passed 1:00 a.m.) on Saturday night.

After that? Things get a little fuzzy.

Whatever Happened To...

I was a little surprised tonight to find the face of the long-lost Debra Winger--aging but still prettily recognizable, her curly brown hair now shot with a bit of gray--staring back at me from the pages of this week's People Magazine.

Winger, you may or may not recall, made an abrupt departure from the movie industry at what was, arguably, the apex of her career. After huge successes with some of the biggest films of the 1980's and 90's like "Terms of Endearment", "Urban Cowboy", and "An Officer and a Gentleman", Winger walked away from it all and into a life of relative obscurity.

Leaving fans like me going...WTF? Come back! We love you Debra!

Winger's disappearance eventually inspired a documentary film released in 2002, "Searching for Debra Winger", written and directed by (another girl you gotta love) Rosanna Arquette. Arquette explores the age-old question of the choices and sacrifices women face in order to make it in the youth and beauty obsessed film industry. Apparently, Winger wasn't so pro on being told she needed to lose a few pounds or about having the quality and appearance of her skin rather than her actual acting ability determining her career options. Go figure.

And then there's the teensy little question of motherhood. According to Winger,

"Anyone that says having children isn't a sacrifice is pretty much lying or not taking care of their kids."

Sing it, sister.

Winger has two sons, Noah now 21 by first husband Timothy Hutton, and Babe, age 11, with current husband Arliss Howard.

According to the People story, Winger has resurfaced to promote her recently released memoir, "Undiscovered" a book that reflects on her years away from the spotlight. Here's an excerpt from the preface:

It is a beautiful spring day in May, and I am pruning my boxwoods. I planted them seven years ago with the intention of having a major topiary experience, but most years I find myself editing them to their most essential square. When pruning boxwoods, it is recommended that you not cut into the leaf. You must find the "Y" in the twig and cut it from there, otherwise you risk harming the shrub's growth. I find this small yet precise move, leading to a large overall effect, very familiar.

A dozen years ago the question of where I was going got louder than anything else in my head. My life had taken a certain trajectory into the world of films and stardom when I was quite young, and I hadn't stopped to question it. But in truth, it was like wanting a pony for your birthday and getting a big shiny merry-go-round instead.

Although I have participated in the odd film project here and there over the last twelve years, I had no real desire to hop back on that merry-go-round. I watched others as they grabbed for the golden ring and felt fine out in the country on my pony. It is a strange experience to be so in a certain world, and then not. I tried to imagine how to start anew.

I collected doors: odd ones from barns, farms, homes, and from my travels. I have dreamed of them in the forest, imagining myself walking through just the right one when I need a boost. I see them as thresholds to newness. Transformations can begin with a start.

Once, my friend and mentor James Bridges found me hiding under the covers, as I often did when I finished a job. I always felt that the roles I accepted must be inextricably linked to my life if I were to keep finding the passion to fuel each job. I had been to the desert making a film, and now everything in my life looked different. He quoted, "She took to her bed to lose her looks."

Charles Dickens, I think. It always made me smile. I could never quite decide if it was about the way the world looked at me or about the way I looked at the world.

I am always searching for the next door, the next role, the next change.

But right now I am pruning boxwoods, twelve to be exact, and I am wondering just how long it will take my mind to stop chattering and allow me to write. A fat red robin with the most laughably blue eggs in its nest is flying to the mud beneath the mailbox, hunting worms like letters from the earth. I want her to come and write this preface.

This morning in May, I am cutting boxwoods, pre-face and after-words on the threshold of my slender volume, with no instructions, directives, or map -- just a sort of pruning of a dozen years to their essential square

.
***


As a bonus, Winger assures People she's never had plastic surgery and never will. Says Winger, "There's too much money spent on it. They should have a bucket out there in L.A.: If you're tempted, just put your money in this bucket instead, and all those causes you love--we'll just send it."

Thought You'd Want to Know...

This isn't late-breaking news, but it's news at least I hadn't heard before. Apparently, the mainstream media has often failed to make much of the story because of the extremely objectionable language involved. Which is exactly why everyone needs to know that, according to a book by Cliff Schecter called "The Real McCain: Why Conservatives Don't Trust Him and Why Independents Shouldn't", McCain called his wife, Cindy, a c--t in front of a group of reporters back in 1992.

The story goes that McCain's wife playfully twirled his hair and said "You're getting a little thin up there," to which McCain replied,

"At least I don't plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you c*nt."

Nice.

Not everyone's ignoring the story. The incident inspired a video that is currently popular on You Tube called "He Said it First". Here's a version with the c-word censored:




I can't imagine why the press is suddenly too squeamish to report this story since, if memory serves, they gleefully recounted the story of what then president Bill Clinton did to Monica Lewinsky with a cigar on a daily basis at right around that same time.

I haven't seen this very widely reported...

Governor Beshear reverses a decision by Ernie Fletcher and reinstates a ban on discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation (for state hiring officials). The ban, originally signed into law by Paul Patton, was reversed by Ernie Fletcher.

"Experience, qualifications, talent and performance are what matter," Beshear said in a statement.

Go Steve! Get the full story here.

Baby Steps

So, you're welcome for the chuckle on me about my Wii age.

Apparently, the news that I'm physically sixty years old has amused a great many people, if my real life feedback is any indication.

And then there are my online commenters. Helpfully letting me know their own Wii ages are several decades south of my own. Oh no! Don't try and cheer me up! Really.

It seems to me I have two choices. And they are : 1) Do nothing and apply for Wii social security (and possibly, by then, Wii disability) in two years or 2) Get off my prematurely decrepit arse and train with the Wii B!tch as well as on my own.

After a lot of deliberation (and you know how I like to deliberate), I'm going with Option #2. It's a painful and very extreme choice, but it is the one I have made nonetheless. To this end, I am implementing some lifestyle changes that I'll be referring to here as "Baby Steps" or B.S. Pun intended. (And being the movie buff that I am, you know that any similarity to Dr. Marvin's "baby steps" program in "What About Bob?" is also completely intentional.)

Baby Step One is:

1. Replace my usual Blueberry Pop Tart breakfast with Kashi sticks-n-twigs cereal, skim milk, and fresh fruit.
While this is an extremely difficult adjustment for me, it is even worse news for a certain furry girl. Who wakes up every workday morning with a big smile on her chops and paces impatiently about the kitchen while she waits for the Big Event. Which, in this case, would be the moment I sit down at the dining table with my usual breakfast: hot buttered Blueberry Pop Tarts.

The ritual is for me to dispose of my unwanted crusts (which hello, Kellogg? nobody eats the crusts! time to develop a crust-free tart--it's only been forty years now!) by tossing them in an arc across the room and directly into her eagerly waiting gullet. Often the crusts are swallowed without even a cursory chew. And FurGirl is, by now, embarrassingly adroit at not letting a badly tossed crust hit the floor. Somehow, I just don't see her leaping her 88-lb butt around like a trained circus animal with quite so much bright-eyed, floppy-ear-bouncing gusto to catch an unwanted whole grain twig. Unfortunately, we'll be seeing about that.

Baby Step Two is:

2. Yah. Exercise. Thirty minutes a day. Five days a week.

So, I hope everybody's happy now. Here I am, a divorced virtual 60 year old with a soon-to-be depressed Golden Retriever (who is herself nearing age 49 in dog years) on her hands. But, I'll be fine! Don't worry about me. I'll just be here sucking on my Geritol and looking forward to the MacNeil Lehrer Report.

***

On a serious note...I'm afraid I simply can't post without at least mentioning the horrendously over done coverage on Tim Russert. Shades of my Ted Kennedy post, I think. Only this time? The subject was, so unfortunately, really dead.

For the record, I think Russert was probably just what he seemed: a great father, an outstanding journalist, a gifted debator and interviewer and, in a world where decent guys are fewer and farther between, an incredibly decent guy. He made a heck of a contribution. Certainly his death is news.

But, for the love of God, the hours and HOURS of coverage that were devoted to the story? Ridiculous. Again? Most of the "coverage" was NOT NEWS. The news was: Tim Russert died. And he was a great guy who will be missed. Everything else? Was just wallowing. Embarrassing wallowing, if you ask me. Hal Boedecker of the Orlando Sentinel summed it up nicely: "The self-indulgence was breathtaking."

And I'm going to go a step further. On into the realm of pure speculation because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want to. I think Russert himself would likely have found the coverage inappropriate.

Please, American media, stop embarrassing yourselves.

Wii Fit

Just as I was gearing up to begin, as threatened, the C25K program and thinking so hard about it that smoke was beginning to pour out my ears and the sight of tennis shoes and sweat bands--any tennis shoes and sweat bands--was triggering the faint fluttery beginnings of a panic attack in my chest, just right in the middle of all this pre-warm-up activity, the Wii Fit happens to me.

I ask you, who among us is not powerless against the mighty hand of fate?

Certainly not me. I've had no choice but to bow to the gale force winds of destiny, temporarily and very reluctantly shelve my pre-C25K plans, and begin a Wii Fitness routine. Which I did, if you can believe it, TODAY.

What's that you say? You don't believe me? Why, I can't imagine. Here is the Wii Me contemplating my first stamped work-out day:

Think my Wii Me is looking a little squishy? You'd be right. I may have, ahem, exaggerated my actual height when I initially created my virtual self. Today, during the preliminary phase of my first Wii work-out, I necessarily had to come clean about my actual height. It was a sad, sad moment as I watched my Wii Me slowly shrink down to a length that much more closely approximated my own. There was even a sad little shrinky sound effect. Or maybe that was just in my head. Anyway.

According to the relentless calculations of the Wii Fit, my "Wii Fit Age" is (brace yourselves) a startling sixty years old. Which, as we know, is a number that is decades and decades and decades (and decades) beyond my actual years.

I was so traumatized by this knowledge that I took the novel step of immediately picking a Wii trainer:

and then actually working out, banking a blistering fifteen wii minutes of work-out time toward my ambitious goal: not being a sixty-year-old anymore. Until I actually am one, anyway, which I don't know if I mentioned? Is DECADES away.

Other than all this trauma, my weekend has been lovely. I made chicken enchiladas on whim from a recipe I ran across in the July Real Simple. They turned out wonderfully (Arty) even if I do say so myself.

Of course, there has been shopping. But absolutely necessary shopping. My recently begun love affair with loose tea made it critical for me to buy the cutest teapot ever at TJ Maxx:

A girl just can't go on boiling her tea water in a sauce pan, for heaven's sake. And along with being cute, this one whistles and everything! Which makes me incredibly happy every time it happens.

SereniTea Now (Because girls just wanna have lunch.)

I've come across a new favorite lunch spot in Paducah. And those that know me well know that this doesn't happen very often. I'm a voracious luncher (all the best dish comes out at lunch, doesn't it?) and I have my favorite spots and they don't change real often.

However, a newly-opened and delightful exception is "SereniTea" owned and operated by Erin Coale. Located between Broadway and Jefferson on 5th Street in the imposing and statuesque old elk's lodge, SereniTea is a charming combination of girly eatery, shopping experience, and tea house.

Erin, a certified tea expert, features a different exotic loose-leaf perfectly brewed iced tea each day. Happily, these teas are also available for sale (just ask my debit card and refer to photo above--those are dried hisbiscus blossoms). On the menu you'll find a delicious daily quiche (asparagus, mushroom and sausage, veggie) or chicken or tuna salad or luscious tiny individual ham and cheese sandwiches on biscuits--your choice served with a bit of fresh fruit on the side.

And don't pass up the homemade dessert--today it was strawberry shortcake--the real deal--with flat sugared shortcake (like God intended), ice cream, fresh strawberries and spanked heavy cream. Heavenly, I assure you.

After lunch, you can meander through an eclectic selection of gifts, soaps, candles, candies, teas, and tea accoutrement in the breezy historic space that features mega-high original stamped tin ceilings and all the early 20th century trimmings.

For the little girl in your life, Erin has a room set aside for tiny tea parties complete with a roomy but miniature table and chairs, itsy bitsy tea sets, and a selection of munchkin sized wide brimmed hats and feather boas. Just the thing to inspire the younger set to appreciate the ritual and brush up on their "pleases" and "thank-you's". And make big girls hearken back wistfully to their own tea parties and simpler times. And go all sigh-y. Over that pink tea set with the black polka dots in particular.

But since you can't go back, or even fit your finger through the handle of that tiny tea cup, you need to grab your girlfriend and your debit card and seize the day by stopping on in to Serenitea Tea House for some lunch and that long overdue big girl chat.

Open Tuesday-Saturday 10:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
121 N. 5th Street
270-450-0749
serenitea.tea@gmail.com

Tell Erin I sent ya.

'Cmon! You know you want to know...

(Some facts about me, the Chihuahua:)

Your single most amazing trait, dah-ling, is that you are charming and gregarious and gorgeous and lively. Oops! That was more than one. No worries, dear, it wouldn't be the first time the rules have been bent for you! Your charisma, combined with the fact that you can really dish out a good yap when push comes to shove, means you have no problem putting on the dog in order to get what you want. But it's not all about you! N-n-n-n-no-ooo! You simply adore your best friend and love your family to pieces, enjoying every precious little teeny tiny moment you spend together. And children? Well, you love the idea of them, but don’t necessarily need them hounding you day and night, right? Come now, honey, let's face it- children just do not appreciate a good sweater.

***

Take the quiz and leave your breed in the comments or leave a link and post in your blog. We'll discuss.

Traumatized

Gopher. Mary-Anne. Horshack. The Fonz. Nellie Oleson. JJ Evans Jr. Laverne and Shirley. Beaver Cleaver. Dorothy, Rose, and Blanche.

If they're a TV star of yore and they still have a pulse, they were likely at the TV Land Awards, and, inexplicably, often hoisted above the crowd on a steel cable. (You tell me.) My apologies for furnishing a link to the photos. It's like you don't want to know, but you can't help yourself.

Oh, also inexplicably featured: Vanessa Williams floating on the aforementioned steel cable above the stage as the cast of has-beens wave around what look to be flashlights made to look like...I don't know...torches, maybe? Seriously.

Design Fever

I spent the weekend in a shopping and decorating lather. The wooden retro shelf pictured here was bought for a song from from the local Surplus City. What do I consider a song? FIVE dollars in this case. (Take that Decor Direct Girl!) It was the last of its kind in the store and the display sample to boot. I could hardly believe my luck.

Looking at that photo really kicks up my OCD, because it looks a little out of kilter. The crookedness is caused entirely by the way I was holding the camera though, it's actually totally level and currently sitting atop my stereo speaker although I have plans to wall mount it soon. I had to merchandise it (Christopher Lloyd) before I could assign it a permanent space on the wall.

My second find was this groovy retro-style night stand:

I'm using it as a coffee table and I'm thrilled with the way it blends stylistically with The Couch, not to mention the additional storage space the two large deep drawers add to my living room situation. FINALLY a place for my remote controls (they currently number four). Total price? Thirty-five dollars, also at Surplus City.

Having spent most of the weekend in the design mode, you can only imagine my shock to learn a mere hour ago that the premiere episode of Season 3 of HGTV's design star was TONIGHT. But for an extremely luckily-timed perusal of the guide, I wouldn't have seen it at ALL. Fortunately, I caught the show only five minutes in. (Whew.) The whole season looks to have been filmed in, of all places, NashVegas, practically right in my own ding dang back YARD.

HOW, I ask you, oh how did I not know this? I'm slippin', that's for sure. This whole having a job thing is seriously cutting into the online reindeer games. (Not that I'm complaining. I really do love my job.)

Obviously, I will likely not spend as much time recapping the show this summer as I did last. But, still, Season 3 looks at least as promising a Seasons 1 and 2 AND the first challenge looks pretty amazing.

The contestants (nine of them) were given a budget $100,000 and what looks to be a pile of lumber and a some army cots and sleeping bags. Their assignment? Build the design headquarters in which they will be living for the remainder of the competition. Yah. Good one. Mean time, the design star wanna-be's will be sleeping al fresco at the construction site until the structure is complete. Time limit for the challenge? One week. I can't even imagine.

If you missed tonight's episode, you can easily catch up here , meet all the contestants and view their audition videos. My preliminary favorite is Matt Locke, a thirty-eight-year-old from Colorado who blew the judges away with his elaborately engineered design board. But, as we know, there's no telling how the whole thing will end up. Tune in next Sunday on HGTV at 8:00PM CST.

Speaking of design competitions, I'm actually switching from Com-shaft Cable to DirecTV in order to finally be able to experience Season 5 of Project Runway on my very own couch. Although I'm finding it very difficult to find any info on the upcoming season, I do understand that episode one will air sometime in July, so for once, no more waiting around for the DVD's to be issued...woohoo!

I have managed to find some rather strange, even sometimes cryptic videos from a Latin designer who may or may not have been cast in Season 5. I suppose it could be a hoax. You can see the shortest video here.

C25K

I've been reading Carrie's journal since, I don't know, before her oldest child was born. I think he's seven now. Man. That's just freaky, isn't it? I don't remember how I stumbled upon the site. And, honestly, I don't know what keeps me going back. Don't get me wrong, Carrie is a fine writer, but in the end I have very little in common with her. Carrie is younger than me, more conservative, and a stay-at-home Mom. It's funny how you can get drawn into someone's life, isn't it? One compelling entry and seven years later there you still are. Or there I still I am anyway.

Carrie has given birth to two little boys in the last seven years and, in the process, like many of us, put on some weight. For the last year, she's been committed to a faithful diet and exercise regime and, as of now, has lost a total of 100 pounds.

You can experience her transformation and see her before and after and some in-between pictures at her photo set here. Be sure and observe the last photo in the set. I'm not sure you could tell she's the same person if you compare her today to some of her pre-weight loss photos.

Carrie's entre to the running world, like that many others, was the Couch to 5K Program. If you've been living under a rock and never heard of it, Couch to 5K or C25K, is an extremely gradual progression of jogging/walking work-outs designed to take even the most inactive of couch potatoes to a place where they can complete a 5K run in eight weeks.

I've been flirting with the idea of comitting myself to C25K for quite some time. As I told my girlfriend when we are at the theater to see SATC, "I've been thinking about that Couch to 5K Program..." And, when my friend looked at me expectantly, I finished, "...I think I'll just keep thinking about it."

It was good for a laugh.

But seeing Carrie's photos tonight, and knowing how much self-discipline and determination it's taken her to buckle down and lose a hundred pounds, makes me feel guilty. Guilty about the extra measly twenty pounds I've been gaining and losing and, often, ignoring since I quit smoking seven years ago.

So, yah, I am now beginning to think seriously about giving the program a try. It just might be time for me to take a big girl pill. In order to become a smaller (healthier) girl again.

Don't expect any unflattering let-it-all-hang-out photo sets out of me.

But I'll keep you posted.

egOprah

I'll just go ahead and confess right now that I got my toes done yesterday.

Not only that? I got my toes done before vacation too.

The truth is that I'll probably get my toes done again this summer. And I'll keep getting them done until the weather turns too chilly for open-toed shoes.

Not that I can afford it or anything.

I'm a recent convert to the pedicure. Recent as in the last couple of years or so. The truth is, crazy as it sounds, I used to think that sitting in a throne-like chair and thrusting your feet into the face of a stranger and paying them to massage your feet and clip and paint your toenails was just all...a little too much, you know? It just seemed so bourgeois and a little icky.

And it seemed that way right up until I sat in a throne like chair and thrust my feet into the face of a stranger and they massaged my feet and shaped and painted my toenails. After that I was all,

"AHHHH SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE AT LAST I'VE FOUND YOOOOOUUUU! AT LAST I KNOW THE MEANING...."

You get my drift. I know of no other beauty process that is quite so enjoyable. I mean, getting your hair cut and styled makes you feel a whole lot better in the end, but the process is kind of boring and annoying and sometimes even painful. An eyebrow wax? Please.

But a pedicure? It's all pleasurable and soothing and relaxing and in the end? REALLY cute soft, sexy feet. Not to mention greatly expanded shoe options: peep-toes, flat sandals, strappy high heeled sandals, even bare feet look snazzy when your toes are "done".

And, yah, I could do it myself and, yah, they'd look just as cute but. A girl just has to reward herself sometimes, doesn't she? And even if I do get arrested for accidentally writing a bad check to the pedicurist, I ask you, how cute will my feet look in those prison flip-flops?

[Note to self: Call the ex-man and tearfully suggest he subsidize Pedicure Recovery Program in order to help restore my shattered self-esteem and quash my extreme loneliness since the big D. All of which is, as he well knows, totally his fault. It could happen.]

Okay where was i? Oh, right, The pedicure. Which isn't, if you can believe it by now, not actually my point.

My point is this. Ever since I've been getting pedicures, I've noticed next to every pedicure throne is, among other publications, a copy of Oprah Winfrey's "O, the Oprah Magazine" placed conveniently on the side table for my reading pleasure. And the first time, I was all like, "Hey! That's Oprah! Oh...it's her magazine!" and then I read it nearly cover to cover while getting my pedicure and it was all good.

Next pedicure? Same thing. At first I was, "Oh, darn, it's the same magazine. With Oprah on the cover. Again." Still, I picked it up thinking there may have been an article or two I missed last time around only to realize...no. This is a whole new issue. With Oprah on the cover. Again.

The third time? I was prepared. And beginning to grasp the truth. Which is that Oprah is on. The Cover of. Every. Single. Issue. Of her magazine.

How long has this been going on? Well, there's this year. And last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. And, don't get me wrong. I like Oprah. Girlfriend is nothing short of a phenomenon and she has, through her book club, almost single-handedly resurrected the ancient past time of actual READING OF BOOKS for legions of people who never would have considered it otherwise. Her charity work is amazing. And her show still often manages to be interesting even if she is sort of turning into a caricature of herself ("Everybodygetsacar! Everybodygetsacar!").

But every issue? EVERY issue? For EIGHT YEARS?

Not even Martha Stewart currently feels or has felt the need for that kind of monotonous one-note overexposure. Does Oprah really think that if she relinquishes a cover that people will forget it's her magazine? Or that they might forget what she looks like?

Not likely on either count.

No, I'd go so far as to say that even if Oprah never appeared on another cover of "O the Oprah Magazine" people would still be pretty clear the "O the Oprah Magazine" is a magazine belonging to Oprah. With an O.

So, Oprah, if you're reading? And, like everybody else, I'm sure you are, it's okay. You can step off the cover now, okay? We see you, we know you're out there! Yes we do! We're aware it's your magazine, too! Really.

Maybe you could offer your bestest, goodest girlfriend, Gail, with whom you invented the Life-Changing Girlfriend Road Trip and then proceeded to ram the whole experience down our throats as if nobody had never taken or considered a Girlfriend Road Trip, a cover. As, you know. A Life-Changing Girlfriend Gift!

But however you have do it, Oprah, do it soon. Because enough is enough, already.

(Maybe you could reallocate all the time necessary for hair and make-up for a cover shoot for a nice, relaxing pedicure. I'm just sayin'.)

Bill Strikes Back

On the heels of the Todd Purdom piece in July's Vanity Fair that I linked to a few days ago, the Clinton Camp issues a bit of a defensive response. Seems they're taking it personal-like. Get the scoop at Ben Smith's Blog.

SATC: The Review

Somebody (thank you!) reminded me that I sorta dropped the ball on the big Sex and the City premiere this weekend. I did hit the theater on Friday night, as promised, sans hat (of any kind), and having indulged in a fruity girl drink (but just one--no more riding around toting open beers and half drunk margaritas in my bicycle basket. damnit. i miss u key west!).

I'm happy to report that the theater was packed to the brim with scads of girlfriends half of whom were saving seats with their big purses for their girlfriends yet to arrive (or in the girls room). SUCH a girl thing. (Does a guy ever save a seat for another guy? No. And...even if he wanted to? What would he use? His wallet? I think not. Please make me stop with the parentheses.)

Anyway, the movie. Was...okay. The quality and content was for the most part on a par with the TV show. At times, not so much, but it has to be a bit harder, after all, to write witty repartee to fill two plus hours as opposed to thirty minutes. And anyway, nothing was going to live up to the hype. Unless SJP were to, I don't know, actually shit a Manolo Blahnick in the middle of 5th Avenue. Which...not to spoil it for you, but that doesn't happen in the film.

It was wonderful to see all the girls back together again and fun to be among a large crowd of enthusiastic women (and about three gay guys) who spontaneously cheered and applauded upon seeing the opening credits. The clothes were mostly divine and I don't think it's a spoiler to say there are positively scrumptious wedding dresses featured from the world's top designers. At the center of the story are some watered silk royal blue Manolo pumps with jewel encrusted buckles that are. To. Die. For. I'm beginning to tear up at the memory of them.

On the other hand? Also prominently featured was the dreaded gladiator sandal. God, what is WRONG with people? I don't care what anybody says, this is a dreadful fashion trend and not, in my opinion, flattering on the spindliest of gams. These shoes nearly made SJP's spaghetti noodle legs look beefy and you know that's saying something.

If you're not sure what shoe I refer to, here's a sample:

Gag me. Seriously.

It brings to mind my violent aversion to the El Camino...thing back in the day. I mean...was it a car or a truck?

In the case of the gladiator...is it a boot or a sandal? A soot or a bandal? It looks as though it USED to be a boot or a sandal. Before the nuclear holocaust. But now? Now it's something in between. Something horribly wrong. It's a new strain of mutant shoe. And, God help us, it seems to be spreading.

But I digress. Overall, I recommend the Sex and the City the movie just for the sheer fun of it because we all need a heapin' helpin' of over-the-top fashion (with the exception of the GS) and sex now and then. I mean, you gotta go, right?

But have a cosmopolitan or some-such fruity drink with your girlfriend(s) before the show and buy your ticket online ahead of time so you won't be rushed. Then you can snicker at all the poor sods in line like we did.

[Editors note: More spacing issues at the beginning of this post. ARGH! Damn you blogger double-space glitch! Damn you to hell!]

What's Up with Bill Clinton

Do NOT miss reading this fascinating piece on Bill Clinton by Todd Purdom in the July issue of Vanity Fair. "The Comeback Id" takes a look at Clinton's jet setting lifestyle, his health, his philanthropic work, his post-presidential financial dealings, and his sometimes volatile outbursts on the campaign trail stumping for his wife. Love him or hate him, (and I fall firmly into the love category), Clinton is one fascinating character. Read the piece right here.

That's Amore

So, two weddings in one day today. That's a lot of slinging around of terms like "forever" and "true love' and "commitment" for two divorced girls to bear on a hot summer day.

Eventually, with all the wild optimism whizzing around in the air, we got to feeling a little faint.

Fortunately, we have our medication to revive us.

Whew.

Pampering Herself?

Despite the fact that the Amy Winehouse CD "Back to Black" won a record six Grammys at the 2006 awards show, I didn't discover the wonder until just recently.

In my typical way-behind-the-curve fashion, two years later, I'm all, "Like, ohmygod! Amy Winehouse is, like, totally bitchin'!" It's sad really. "Back to Black" has been playing in my car stereo for weeks now and I haven't been this enamored of a CD since my love affair with "Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man". I love it. LOVE IT.

Musical talent aside, however, poor Amy seems to have officially taken over the title of World's Biggest Female Celebrity Trainwreck (WBFCT). There are literally countless videos of her all over the internet showing her drunk, disoriented and belligerent, railing against the press and just...who or what ever. One of the more famous of these shows her at a concert engaging in what for all the world looks like a bit of a cocaine snort during a song. Her song. That she's supposed to be singing. On the stage.

Girlfriend really DOESN'T want to go to rehab.

Amy's been in jail. Her husband's been in jail. Her in-laws took to the BBC airwaves to plead with the public not to continue to buy her music. In the hope that the resulting lack of cash flow would interrupt the flow of drugs into her brain.

Most recently, Amy has been photographed wearing what the press speculates is a diaper beneath a flowered mini-dress. I really can't tell what it is. Heck, you be the judge. If you ask me, that could just be a bunched up slip and some panties.

Regardless, I'm just glad Amy has something between her crotch and the paparazzi. Because if she didn't? You know the whole entire world would be subjected to an angle of Amy (ala Lindsay, Britney, Paris, and Beyonce) that only her husband and and her Area Doctor should reasonably be expected to endure.

So, really, shouldn't poor Amy be given a little credit here? Disoriented and incoherent as she is, there is obviously still some small, sane corner of her brain reminding her to keep her lady business covered. Even if she is using a diaper to do it.

***

Amy may just have some up and coming competition for the WBCFT title. In the unlikely person of Kirsten Dunst who seems to be looking a little marginal these days.

***

Lastly, it is my sad duty to (once again) update you on the current state of Alanis Morissette:

Get the full fug right here.

Girls Night Out!

It's been over-hyped, overblown, over anticipated, over advertised and most importantly....

...overDRESSED in The Hat for Which There Is No Excuse even if you are SJP, but still. Doncha kinda want to see it the first night?

I do.

If you want to go, call me. We won't be wearing hats. Promise.

The Festival Widget

BubbleShare: Share photos - Powered by BubbleShare
Please bear with me here on the whole photo thing. You know how obsessive I am when I get started on something. I am, apparently, the last person in the world to figure out these sharing/scrolling photo slide show widget thingies. I had hoped to be able to embed music with the scroll but this process is evidently more difficult with a PC than a Mac (e-mail me if you know of an easy way to do this).

Still, I'm happy to have gotten this far and not to have gone insane (I took well over 1,000 photos) figuring which photos to add and how to arrange them. It is these types of questions that threaten the sanity of over-thinking obsessive/compulsive types like myself. I could spend, literally, days on this stuff; I have already spent much of today and the bulk of tonight on it. For now I've managed, through Herculean effort, to winnow it down to a lean mean 84 photos.

Yep, I'm tired.

The slide show is yet another compilation of (how did you guess?) festival photos. Most of the shots I posted previously are included and then some. I won't take it personally if you click the heck on out of here. For now, I just want to get this uploaded and see how the posted slide show looks. Thanks for your patience.

I promise my next post will be primarily literary (and I use that term loosely) as opposed to photographic.

I think.

Neat-o

Tired as I am, I couldn't go off to bed without sharing a photo of the coolest bracelet EVER (and I may have said that before but this time I really mean it) that I got at the Lowertown Festival tonight. It spells "writer" in antique typewriter keys. These particular keys are from a Smith-Corona. LOVE! And also pictured there are...matching earrings! LOVE! One earring is an "S" key and one a "Back Space" key. Back Space! Ha! The whole set makes me goofy with happiness.

They had other bracelets in keys that said stuff like "artist" and "hooker" (like a rug hooker, but damn, how fun is that?) and "I Love You". And earring keys like "Margin Release".

It's irresistible stuff I tell you.

If you have to have some for yourself (and I think you do), the Festival runs until Sunday at 4:00 p.m. Come on down.

Covering Ted

Since Senator Ted Kennedy's seizure on Saturday and subsequent diagnosis with a malignant brain tumor, the media has expressed shock, sorrow, hopelessness and now, lacking anything more to say about the situation, has seen fit to just go on and eulogize the man. While he's out sailing in his sailboat.

It is but the latest example, in my opinion, of just what's wrong with today's 24-hour-a-day, seven-days-a-week endless talking head coverage on channels like CNN, CNBC and others. The never ending need for stories, whether they are newsworthy or not, has pushed the definition of "news" into a whole new realm. Now not only is the story the story, but also what someone THINKS about the story is news and what MIGHT happen is news and what will LIKELY happen is news. Even how everyone FEELS passes for news these days.

Many of the print stories are accompanied by pieces quoting this or that doctor painting a bleak picture of Kennedy's chances. The statistic I read most is that "half" of all patients with conditions similar to Kennedy's die within a year of treatment.

I'm not very good at math, but doesn't this mean Kennedy is just as likely as not to live another year? Maybe longer. The only thing Kennedy himself has said is that he is "optimistic".

In one CNBC "news" interview Brian Williams lauded Kennedy as the "nucleus of the American family" and speculated for a good five minutes on how the Kennedy family must be feeling right now. (Duh.) All of this chatting was accompanied by a large red graphic at the bottom of the screen that silently screeched "Breaking News". The whole discussion was called a "report".

And, you know, I'm sorry but the last time I checked? A breaking news report should be something more than idle speculation about how someone may feel. What I've just described here is a talk show, not news.

I count at least ten similar reports at CNBC alone, some of them speculating on possible treatment and outcomes, many of them reporting what other people said about the situation. They are calling Kennedy an "icon", and "the Senate's last lion" (McCain) and legislators are apparently openly weeping on the Senate floor.

Is it just me or does all this smack of "already dead" as opposed to "newly diagnosed"?

According to his wife, the optimistic Senator Kennedy himself is hoping to participate in an annual sailing race this weekend off Cape Cod. And I for one hope he does. Anything to keep him away from endlessly grim, unnecessary and downright inappropriate speculation of what passes for "the press" these days.

Obviously, Kennedy is a a well loved and important figure in American politics. And this is not a good diagnosis. Still, does he not deserve a chance to live until he dies? To hope until he can't? Can we not show the man a little respect in what may or may not be the twilight of his life?

I would encourage the maudlin media, the pre-eulogizing politicians and the sobbing Senators to put on their big boy or girl panties and have a little respect for a man they all profess to love and admire so much.

And shut the hell up already.

(Because I'm sure they're all reading.)

What to do this weekend...

Learn more here and listen to an artist that I am looking forward to, Robinella, here. Hear the Ivas John Band here. The festival will be, literally, twice the size it was last year--don't miss it.

Chelsea Lately

Am I the only one around here with a raging girl crush on Chelsea Handler star of the E! show Chelsea Lately? The show, that airs weeknights at 10:30 PM, and which I have for some reason just now discovered, features comedienne Chelsea Handler and an interesting variety guests commenting on and sending up entertainment news of the day. It has become my new Johnny Carson. If, that is, Johnny was a cute, blond, funny and fabulous girl. Instead of Ed McMahon, Chelsea has Chuy, her pint-sized Latin sidekick.

Best of all, Chelsea doesn't mind making fun of herself. Here, she reenacts a recent unfortunate experience she had while taking Ambien sleep medication. (Gee. Where have we heard THAT before?)




Disclaimer: Normally? Chelsea is a really snappy dresser. No idea what's going on with that trainwreck of a dress she's wearing in the monologue. Must have been one of Those Days.

Chelsea's latest book: Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea hit the top of the New York Times bestseller list earlier this month.

Credit Where Credit is Due

When I found an envelope in my mailbox with a Jackson Purchase Electric return address yesterday, I tossed it in my purse knowing it must surely be the very first electric bill I would have to pay all by myself in, well, a long while. As you can imagine, I was in no hurry to find out the bad news.

So, how surprised was I this afternoon when, instead of a bill, I pulled a check from that envelope? A check for $75. Made out to me. A refund of the reconnect fee I vented about in this very blog because of my strong (to say the least) belief that I was unfairly charged. I'll admit I sent their customer service department a link to that rather heated May 1st post.

So, thanks Jackson Purchase customer service, for righting a wrong that was both financially and practically especially painful for me to bear.

(And never under estimate the power of the Blog.)

A Key West Memory

I took this photo from the plane (and, yes, any time I think or write the phrase "the plane" Herve Villechaize comes shreiking out of a dark corner of my brain in his white Tattoo tux squeaking "De plane, boss, de plane!") during the scenic flight to the Dry Tortugas. I alluded to seeing this place in my earlier post, but thought you might like to see a photo. Of some lucky someone's very own private island.

And I think getting a massage is decadent.

(The photo is clickable for a larger version.)

Go Ahead On

Read something good today.

Cloverfield, etc.

With everything going on in my life these days, a few of my old habits have fallen by the wayside. Like the management of my Netflix queue. Gone are the times when queue updating and careful orchestration was an important near daily task (and I do miss it).

Still, I manage to sandwich in a flick now and then and, most recently, that movie was Cloverfield. It's a film I had really high hopes for, being as I am one of those people who is always hoping to actually be scared sh!tless by a movie. It doesn't happen very often.

Horror is the most difficult of genres; a half-step this way or that quickly lands a filmmaker in the realm of the ridiculous. Horror is, I think, mostly the art of subtlety usually coupled with a big ol' slap in the face now and then. And I doubt today's ham-handed movie makers can even spell subtle much less accomplish it on film or really grasp the concept. (I'm talking Hollywood here, not the Indies which is where, if we have any, all our hope lies.)

So, anyway, Cloverfield, as it turns out, is basically Blair Witch Project meets Godzilla but with better special effects. It's worth seeing for a few cheap thrills, but there's definitely nothing new here. And the dialogue...oy. Let me give you a sample of roughly seventy-five percent of it:

"Rob...Rob! Oh my God, Rob! Rob! No...no, Rob! Come back Rob! Rob! That's an electronics store...Rob! Rob! What are you doing, Rob?! Rob! ROB! We can't go that way, Rob! ROB! COME BACK! NO! OHMYGOD! ROB! ROOOOOB!..."

Yes, people, Rob is a very busy guy. Obviously they were going for realism here, but gah, stop it. On the bright side, the movie could be useful as a frat party game--everyone drinks when they hear "Rob". Anyone conscious after the first third of the film wins. (Does anyone besides me remember the "The Bob Newhart Show" drinking game? Man. How long ago was that?).

If you're wondering what horror films I DO consider great (and you are, aren't you?), I'll give you my top ten. As of today (because these things are constantly in flux) in no particular order:

Jaws
Psycho
The Ring
The Exorcist
The Mothman Prophecies
Rosemary's Baby
The Omen
Alien
Poltergeist
The Shining

Other recent films I've taken in include Dan in Real Life, a uneven romantic comedy that aspires to the heights of Cousins, but barely makes it passed Hallmark movie status. I'm not sure what is going on with Juliette Binoche in this one, she is usually a fairly reliable sentimental favorite of mine since her unforgettable breakthrough performance in Damage, holy CRAP, was that ever intense. Anyway, she is a little lost in this movie performance-wise, but seems to have undergone a bit of an overhaul appearance-wise. A nip here and tuck there were in evidence along with a general slimming down.

I saw Twenty Seven Dresses on the plane back from Key West and it was absolute trite, predictable crap. With one small exception: they had the good sense to include a tune from my girl Regina Spektor in the soundtrack (Fidelity).

In conclusion: rent Cloverfield for the special effects but don't expect innovation, pass on Dan in Real Life and 27 Dresses.

If you want to see something really interesting, rent my sidebar recommendation, Can Mr. Smith Get to Washington Anymore? a film about a young, smart, but unlikely candidate for the US House of Representatives from Missouri named Jeff Smith. Smith ran against Russ Carnahan, a candidate with a huge amount of name recognition. The film is a fascinating look at the political process in this country today and what it takes to win.

Honey...I'm home!

I did it. I went back to work on Thursday. And they didn't send me home and I stayed all day and worked and then did it again today.

You know I have a strict no-mixing-the-blog-with-work policy, but I think it's okay if I say that it was a pretty darn wonderful two days of working. While the position I hold now is new to me, the work place and the majority of my co-workers are not. They are people I've worked with before and have known, in some cases, for nearly twenty years. It is really a joy to be around and work with people that I also consider to be great friends. I am lucky, indeed, to have managed such a happy re-entry into the working world.

Mid-morning of my second day on the job, these arrived:

A little gift from the ex-man to wish me well.

And, yes, it made me sad. But happy too. It made me think that maybe? Everything's going to be all right.

Snow Day

I arose this morning for the first time in a long time to the sound of an early morning alarm. I was a little relieved to know I could still do it, actually. After a long hot shower and unusually (for me these days) long make-up session, I got gussied up in something relatively professional, stepped into the pumps I dug out after a frantic last-minute closet reorganization the evening before (I hadn't seen my work clothes in nearly a year), and made the drive to work.

Yes, Work.

There I learned that, due to a mislaid letter and other miscommunications, I wasn't actually supposed to start until...tomorrow.

Woohoo! A last minute reprieve.

I hopped back in my car, cranked my Regina Spektor CD (my obsession w/track six continues), and considered how I would spend my little windfall of eight extra hours as I drove home. Ultimately, I concluded that a quiet day (it's rainy after all) of blogging and reading would be in order.

So, here I am back on my couch with my laptop and it's not even 9:00 a.m. Life is good.

As noted in my sidebar, my book du jour is Almost There Journey of a Dublin Woman by Nuala O'Faolain. After reading this post and then this heartbreaking article, I impulse bought the memoir from the Amazon Marketplace. I learned only after I received the book and began reading that it is actually the second installment in a two-book series of memoirs, the first being Are You Somebody.

In any case, I will definitely be reading both, Nuala is a wildly talented writer. Or I should say was a wildly talented writer. She died May 9th, so the book is an especially bittersweet read. It's maybe just the thing to remind me to rejoice in the life that I have left, that we all have left. As I continue my own journey with a new job.

Tomorrow.

Another Butterfly

Vacation Wrap-Up

I fell woefully behind in keeping you updated on my vacation activities. In the end, there was just too much going on, too much fun and merriment, and too much to be taken in to be able to write about it as it happened.

We ended the vacation with a big trip via sea plane to The Dry Tortugas, the pictures of which I posted in the previous post without text so the images would all be clickable for larger versions. The Tortuga's are a chain of seven islands located in the Gulf of Mexico 70 miles from Key West. The largest island, and the one we visited, is actually the most remote national park in the US, accessible only by boat or sea plane. The US government began construction of a military fort on the island in the 1840's hauling millions of bricks via ship to the location. As you can see from the aerial photo I took, the fort is shaped much like the pentagon and is surrounded on all sides by a brick sea wall that forms a moat.

For some reason, construction of the fort was abandoned and the incomplete fort was then used to house Civil War POW's (in the 1860's) and then later, as a regular prison eventually becoming the national park and bird sanctuary it is today.

The flight out to the island was a scenic one, only 500 feet above the ocean and 40 minutes in duration. Lou, our pilot, pointed out and flew even lower over various locations of interest like a private island and several of Mel Fisher's multi-million dollar shipwreck finds which I dutifully snapped photos of (I'd post the shipwreck photos, but they only look like shadows in the water).

Looking through the viewfinder eventually made me very nauseous prone as I am to motion sickness in the first place. I had to spend the remaining 20 minutes of the flight like a dog with my nose pressed as close to the tiny window air vent as possible and praying my roiling stomach (full of my usual lunch time margarita--what was I THINKING?) wouldn't get the best of me. Fortunately for everyone, it didn't.

Landing on the water went surprisingly well and, once I slogged on to the beach after gratefully scrambling out of the plane, my sickness was quickly forgotten. Because, oh my goodness. It was just like Gilligan's Island. If there had been a fort there. We headed for the visitor center and watched a short video about the history of the island and then headed to the snorkeling beach.

My companion, a snorkeling enthusiast, had packed gear to do that with and at the airport, the sea plane people asked me if I needed any. Although I told them no, they packed me some on the plane anyway. And once standing on the completely unspoiled and near empty white sand beach (also pictured in the previous post) and gazing into the crystal clear water under a gorgeous azure sky, I knew I'd be insane not to at least give snorkeling a try.

Why would I be so afraid of snorkeling you ask? That would be nearly 100% attributable to an unforgettable viewing of this at a VERY impressionable age (age three if you're wondering). I've never as much as contemplated sticking even a toe in the ocean without the soundtrack going off in an endless terrifying loop in my head. Plus? How many tragic ocean stories have you read that began, "While snorkeling off the coast of --fill in the blank--a terrified couple were attacked by a--shark/man eating squid/rabid alligator/two-headed sea monster/web footed lava lizard/whatever terrifying creature you can think of--". You know. That sort of thing.

Still...I was in a tropical paradise (I told myself). So, I took a big girl pill and agreed to give it a try. Once suited up (and can I say again? thank GOD I got contacts) with my flippers and mask and inflatable vest I felt as though all I was missing was a large flashing sign across my ass reading "SHARK DINNER". Nevertheless, I bravely flopped across the beach and into the water where, the first time the water got up to my neck I hysterically screamed "HELP!" through my snorkel tube. Like, maybe three times. Or ten.

I was instructed to just put my face in the water. Many times. And then? I just did it. I put my face in the water. And I was completely weightless and all I could hear was the sound of my own breath in my ears and all I could feel was the cool ocean water against my skin and the sun on my back and everything before my eyes looked just like an aquarium. Only the aquarium was endless and everywhere. There was coral and shells and fish. I kicked a flipper and glided across the water double quick.

And just like that? I was hooked.

We snorkeled for maybe a quarter of a mile around the island. It was magical and amazing and I only was scared once, when a lone guy who had walked out on the moat wall to fish shouted out and told us there was a five-foot barracuda swimming near where he was standing (maybe 15 feet from where I was). I responded by shouting back, "Don't say the b-word, okay? Just don't say it!" And we swam on and I never saw a barracuda. Just small friendly-sized fish (I know one kind was a parrot fish) that dart around coral like you see in salt water aquariums and such. We probably snorkeled for an hour and a half, but I could have stayed in much longer.

By the time we emerged, we didn't have much time left before the plane was to leave, and we spent it walking out on the sea wall which is when I got the shot of the sea turtle you can see in my picture post. I actually have about eight great shots of him every bit as good as the one I posted thanks to my trusty camera.

Those who know me and the fact that I have skin that generally stays fish-belly white year-round, are likely wondering if I fried in the tropical sun to a deep shade of lobster red. And the answer to that is I WOULD have, were it not for Neutrogena's latest sun block which now is up to an amazing SPF of SEVENTY. Yes, SPF 70 for fair, vampire-ish maidens such as myself. I am burnt in places that I missed with the screen and am otherwise mostly just tanned. Yes! Tanned! Simply amazing.

I actually did lots more on my trip that I could write about, but I feel the moment has passed. Suffice it to say I had a wonderful, incredible time and I can't think of a better way to end up my hiatus from work.

Onward.