It is What it Is

A Skymall Summer

The only stainless steel wallet? How can that bet? Surely other companies have been dying to jump on this bandwagon. There must be copy cats galore. After all, who wouldn't want a stiff, relatively un-malleable material to carry in their back pocket. The seat of one's pants is definitely the place for discomfort if there ever was one.

And, even if the wallet is woven of stainless steel and has rounded edges as the ad claims (for the safety of the buyer), what's the point of having a stainless steel wallet to begin with? Do that many credit cards and driver's licenses break and suffer unnecessary damage because the wallet holding them just isn't strong enough?

At $89.95, I'm going to pass.

The Friendly Skies

I’m not a good flier.

I’m sure it’s shocking to most, but something about my fear of heights, death and touching strangers added to my anxiety disorder doesn’t make for the best mix. I tend to vacillate between near-hyperventilation, the temptation to start inappropriate conversations with strangers (“Tila Tequila, what a whore, huh?”) and staring into the abyss of my own mortality from the moment I enter the airport until my last flight touches the tarmac.

I’ve developed a series of rituals to deal with this fear. They includes touching the plane before I board, crossing myself on takeoff and landing and listening to the safety instructions every single time so that no greater power decides to strike me down for my arrogance.

Let’s just say that between my panic and having to remember all of the little details that keep the plane in the air (you’re welcome pilots), I find air travel absolutely exhausting.

Rainy Days and Dog Blogs

I have often thought about giving my dog Cassidy her own blog. (Tentative title: I'm All Ears -- because Cassidy has both very large ears and tons of great advice to give.) I thought it could be a fun forum, and re-telling the events of the day from a dog's perspective might make the rather mundane tasks of waiting for the mailman and seeing who is on today's episode of WifeSwap slightly more interesting. Might.

Up until now, the main reason I haven't created a blog for Cassidy is that I didn't want to have to share this information with potential boyfriends. After all, one of my primary goals in life, after publishing a book and developing the self-control not to eat my weight in chips and salsa after every single Mexican restaurant I visit, is not dying alone. And, somehow I think that explaining to dates that one of my hobbies is writing an Internet journal in an affected canine third person wouldn't help me out with that last one.

But, ever since the BF didn't seem too frightened when I mentioned wanting a blog for Cassidy, I've gone back to the idea. 

A Trip Abroad

My parents left for a cruise yesterday. They’ll board a ship in Venice and then visit Greece, Croatia and Turkey. As they were getting ready for their trip, I was reminded of my first trip to Italy in the spring of my senior year of high school.

My high school’s Latin teacher took a group of students to Italyevery year (or every other year, I’m not sure I can remember which at this point). My year, there were 16 of us going, and I’ve rarely been so excited for a vacation. I was lucky to have visited Europe before – London, Paris and Ireland -- but there was something about Italy. I imagined myself surrounded by art, buying tons and tons of clothes and eating as much pizza as I could stand.

I was surrounded by art, but the clothes were still quite a bit out of my price range (no “discount” Prada for me), and thanks to some sort of ridiculous travel bug, I could barely keep anything down, let alone eat my weight in pizza.

Because of this very unpleasant stomach problem, I ended up in a pharmacy in Florence having one of the most awkward conversations a teen girl can have.

“Excuse me?” I said. “Do you have any Pepto?” Admittedly, it was naïve of me to expect that I could ask for an American pharmaceutical brand name, in English, in Italy, but I was miserable. And, I hoped that the pink stuff was universal.

The woman behind the counter didn’t answer my question at all. She just stared at me before going off to find a man in a white coat. “Yes?” he said.

“I was wondering if you had any Pepto.”

“Pepto?”

“Stomach stuff. I have an upset stomach.”

“Oh,” he said and nodded. “You have the cramps.”

“No, no, not the cramps,” I said. “Upset stomach.”

“Yes,” he nodded again. “The cramps.” Then he looked over some medicines behind the counter. “Woman problems.”

“No, not woman problems. Stomach problems.”

“The cramps,” he said even louder while motioning with his hands in wide circles in front of what I think was his imaginary uterus. “The cramps!”

Just a little FYI here, teenage girls don’t like to talk about their periods. Buying tampons is beyond an ordeal for adolescents, and we go to great lengths to hide these womanly matters from our male peers and most others. Having a strange man in a foreign land yell about cramps while coming up with hand motions to illustrate his point is a tad bit, well, mortifying. (Also, I was pretty sure whatever he wanted to give me wasn't going to work. Otherwise, I probably could have sucked it up and given it a shot. But, Midol wasn't going to cut it.)

“Cramps,” he said one last time before digging for more medicine.

Having turned bright red by now, I ran from the store while the pharmacist was checking his inventory. We clearly weren’t getting anywhere.

Eventually, my stomach just settled itself out, and I was thoroughly grateful for the absence of pain and the fact that I wouldn’t have to try that conversation again.

So, here’s to wishing my parents a trip without small humiliations, and here’s to learning to buy medicines for any and all situations before leaving the country. It’s not a mistake I’ve made since.

The Great Outdoors

In so many ways, I was never destined for the outdoors. My fair skin and appeal to mosquitoes are only the beginning -- direct sunlight hurts my eyes, I don't like being hot and I try to avoid dirt whenever possible. If there's not a pool within a five foot radius, I'd just rather be inside. (FYI: that puts you closer to the bar and reality TV, too.)

Which is why any urge I have to do yard work always surprises me. (Keep in mind I said "urge." It's rarely fulfilled -- hence my lawn looks the way it does. I'd like to blame the stolen lawnmower, but I had lost the battle against weeds and growth long before that.)

I think it's the Type A/OCD side of me that wants to work in the yard. I like things to be neat and ordered. My yard tends to be anything but. Some would call this laziness. I blame the aforementioned genetics/quirks.

But, lately, not even I can ignore how bad my yard has gotten. I dream about towering weeds, creeping vines and sink holes. So, for the past two days, I've ventured out. Gardening gloves on, clippers in hand, rake by my side, I decided to do yard work.