jewels of the interweb (volume 19)

This version is less fun...

I hear this is actually what it's like.

Truth!

we're trying to spawn!

Will and I officially started trying to get pregnant this month! (*cue cheesy porno soundtrack here*). I have no idea how long it will take us to get knocked up, but I kinda hope it takes a while. I could use all the extra sleeping in I can get!

No, we are NOT going to be like this family. Population control, people!

Ideally, we would just have a lot of awesome, unprotected sex and see what happens, but Will's gone for work so much that the odds of us getting pregnant are much slimmer. I've done my research, and I'm rather appalled how hard it actually is to get pregnant! I always thought that when my ovary dropped an egg, it would just float around for a week or so before giving up. Apparently, though, eggs can only last 12-24 hours in your body before they just crap out! (not literally, mind you) Or disintegrate, or whatever it is they do. That's only a 24 hour window for getting pregnant once a month!

How the hell do all these crazy teenagers keep getting knocked up so easily???

Oh, wait. Teenagers hump like bunnies. I suppose sheer frequency would increase the odds.

Anyway... so, I got one of those little ovulation predictor things. It displays a little smiley face right before your body is about to drop an egg. I was totally stoked to see the smiley face, but also a bit worried that one would never appear because I'm sterile or something... but when I actually saw the smiley face for real, I almost threw up.

It was go time!

And then Will got called up to go BACK to Africa for more work. Luckily, we'd done the deed enough to consider myself solidly insperminated before he left, but it may put a damper on things when the next egg drops.

Maybe I'll just make Will bring back a cute little Burundian baby for us. If Madonna can steal a Malawian child, why can't we?

Oh, wait. Because we're not bajillionaires, we would never get away with it. We'd probably end up causing some ridiculous international incident...

I guess we'll just have to explore the proper legal channels, then.

If our child looks like this, I'm going to tell them to put it back - we'll just demand a re-do.

jewels of the interweb (volume 18)

Seriously, WTF???? 

If only we all had last names that were this versatile...

Don't forget to paint him a happy little friend here and there...

Hitler might have been a professional waxer, had things gone somewhat differently.

When I was 19 and trying oh-so-hard to sound cool, I told a couple friends that I'd had a Brazilian wax done before. I shrugged it off, like it was as easy as clipping one's toenails. See how effortlessly awesome I am?

I totally lied. I have no idea why. Seriously, why? I'm still somewhat appalled by the offhand fibs I told as a teenager. Now if I tell an untruth (even accidentally - say, for example, that I'm speculating or just completely wrong about something), I have to confess and correct the error immediately.

You could say that I'm a compulsive truth-teller now.

Anyway, back to Brazilian waxes. It always struck me as something really bad-ass to do, right up there with sky-diving and going on safari (both of which I did in 2009). But offering up my nether regions to the brutal hands of the waxer seemed WAY more scary than jumping out of a plane...

My sister had it done once and the whole ordeal sounded impossibly tragic. She went to some small-town aesthetician and found herself kneeling backwards in a recycled dentist chair. The arms of the chair were wrapped in several layers of well-worn duct tape. With her bare ass up in the air, she looked behind her and realized her rear was pointed directly at a door with a window on it. The door's window had blinds, which were wide open.

I don't even think she was able to finish, although she valiantly made it through the majority of the procedure. After hearing this story, I resolved that I was going to find a highly recommended aesthetician, of the non-ghetto variety.

I decided to get waxed a few days before our wedding, as a special "present" for our first night as husband and wife. I mean, come on, people... I'm 31 years old. I'm hardly going to have any OTHER surprises for my new husband, now am I? But a friend warned me that waxing is addictive; you may have it done once "just for fun," but then it quickly becomes essential to survival. Still... I was skeptical. It seems like a pretty frivolous expenditure, doesn't it?

The whole experience was extremely awkward (no surprise there!). The aesthetician ushered me into a little room with something that looked like a masseuse's table and told me she'd be back when I was ready. She started to dart away, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room. I felt somewhat panicky and squealed: "Wait! I don't know what to do!"

"Ohhhhhhh, this is your first time!" The aesthetician suddenly became less brusque and more sympathetic. She could see the unbridled fear in my eyes and gave me a quick tutorial so I'd know what to expect.

At this point in my life, having my feet in stirrups at the gynecologist isn't my favorite thing to do, but it certainly feels more natural than having a little blonde hair stylist/aesthetician messing around down there. It made me wonder if my gynecologist would consider branching out from pap smears to waxing. I mean, couldn't she just tidy things up a bit while she was swabbing my cervix? You know, kill two birds with one stone while you're at it?

Nevertheless, my aesthetician was sort of amazing - she was the consummate professional. She got me talking about the wedding, thus distracting me from impending pain. She was extremely quick and thorough and, when it was over, I felt like I'd just climbed Mt. Everest. Sure, I'd almost kicked her in the face at one point, but everything turned out ok in the end (*no aestheticians were harmed in the making of this blog post).

I walked out of the salon feeling like an aerodynamic superhero with a sexy secret.

So I started coming back once a month, tweaking and readjusting my budget to make room for what was quickly becoming an addiction. Until one February evening, when my aesthetician made me bleed...

I'll be honest, it was minor and purely accidental. Like a little shaving cut on my inner thigh, but my skin felt extremely sensitive that night and it was definitely hurting more than usual.

Feeling sweaty and out of breath from the discomfort, I looked at my aesthetician with a whole new perspective.

What kind of person was she, anyway? Who would willingly CHOOSE to do this to someone for a living? She had to be some sort of tiny, blonde sadist. I suddenly felt bad for her boyfriend.

I left the salon, firm in my resolve to never go back. Never again! I would learn to appreciate the extra fur God gave me.

But then it all started to grow back... and I felt messy.

So I scheduled another appointment.

That evening, when I returned home from work, I noticed a brand new waxing kit sitting unopened on the kitchen table. It was timely, considering I'd just scheduled another appointment... and thus, confusing.

"Will? Why is there a waxing kit on the table?"

"So you can wax my back before I go back to work."

My husband works about 40% of the year in east Africa, and spends his weekends sunning himself by a hotel pool (yes, his life is extremely difficult). Now, he doesn't actually have a hairy back but he does have a few patches of wayward fur under his shoulder blades and, apparently, he was getting self-conscious about his "angel wings."

Suddenly, I was intrigued. I was going to have the power of the waxing sadist now!

I fell into my role with zeal, which made Will a little nervous. I heated up the wax, prepped his back, and got down to business.

The problem was... it was a hard wax. Which meant that I had to peel up the edges of the wax before I could get a good enough grip to yank it off. Which was extremely painful for Will, who resorted to Lamaze-type breathing tactics to get through it.

When I went to my own waxing appointment the next day, I told my aesthetician about the experience. She gave me tips on how to make hard wax less painful, and then asked me (rather slyly), "So... you liked doing it, didn't you?"

I sighed, averting my eyes from the woman I'd only recently decided was a shameless sadist, and lifted my knees to my shoulders so she could finish applying wax where the sun don't shine.

"It was awesome," I admitted.

If this corporate gig doesn't work out, then I'm totally going to become a professional waxer. I'll open up my own salon and name it "Marquis de Bald" or "Naked Junk."

Clearly, I still have some work to do on the name. Any suggestions?

jewels of the interweb (volume 17)

Take the hint. 

Hint: it's the one in the ugly Christmas sweater.

In honor of March Madness. This guy is my hero. 

road trip to Mexico, anyone?

My dear friend Hadley, who I met on my first trip to St. Petersburg, is now a high school principal in Scottsdale, AZ. She invited me to go with her for a girls' trip to Puerto Peñasco and I couldn't resist!  Of all the random places I've been, I've never actually travelled to Mexico (which is actually the closest foreign country in proximity to me). 

The plan was for me to fly to Phoenix, and then we'd drive to Puerto Peñasco (about a 4 hour drive). But when I told other people about our plans, their reactions were all the same: *cringe* You're driving across the border? Please be careful. 

I couldn't figure out why I never got these reactions when I told people I was going to Africa or post-earthquake Haiti. No one cringed and told me to be careful with a meaningful look like you're being soooo stupid. But I'd done my research, checked the State Department's travel advisories, and was only traveling about an hour from the Arizona border anyway (to a place that is so tourist-y it hardly qualifies as real Mexico).

Puerto Peñasco is in the top left. 

I checked with a friend of mine who has dual citizenship and travels to see his family in Mazatlan at least twice a year; he assured me that if we drove during the day and weren't driving around in a pimped out/lowered Cadillac Escalade, then we'd be perfectly fine. 

Not that Mexico isn't dangerous (that's clearly true), but I also think it gets over-hyped in the media. The tourists who get hurt/murdered are typically drunk spring-breakers who waltz into a foreign country with a sense of entitlement and general lack of good judgment.

Hadley, Krisanne, and I devised a plan: don't drive at night, don't go out at night, don't get drunk in public. 

That pretty much covers all the bases!

First checkpoint south of Why, AZ.

We got through the border fairly quickly, with only one minor mishap. Hadley had left her passport in her purse in the very back of the car, so she had to get out and search for it. The Mexican border official stood behind her and asked if she had any alcohol, tobacco, or firearms right as a bottle of wine rolled out from from under the cooler and out of the back of the car. She caught it mid-air before it hit the pavement, and replied: "No?" with the bottle in her hands. The official shrugged and waved us on.

We proceeded through the border town of Sonoyta. Not five minutes after crossing the border, we almost got T-boned by a semi-truck running a stop sign. There was so much traffic around that we couldn't really get out of the way, and we were already slightly disoriented so it shook us all up a bit. I'm not exaggerating, folks. It was a pretty close call!

Note to self: Mexican semi-trucks always have the right of way, no matter what.

Our condo on the beach!

We made it to Puerto Peñasco in less than an hour, and settled into our new surroundings. The town itself seemed completely deserted, and the beach did too. We wandered outside after unpacking, and wondered what we'd gotten into. Was there anyone here???

After a while, we started to see some signs of life. There was a restaurant just to the north of us on the beach, and a few people were there having drinks. We noticed a couple other people in the condo units to the south of us.

Our porch had a nice decorative shrimp-in-a-hammock mural (as well as some lovely "wall-phins" indoors).

We realized pretty quickly that we were in a safe, insulated little paradise. Hooray for vacation!

View from our porch. Does it get any better than this? 

We went to the restaurant for a couple margaritas and some lunch. The restaurant had a weathered sign that boasted: "Less than 1 million tacos sold!" How's that for a positive attitude?

After lunch, we hit the beach in our giant, floppy gringa hats.

There were about four dogs who lived on the beach. We later found out they were guard dogs, and would bark wildly when anyone came onto the beach who didn't belong there. They sniffed us out, decided we were ok, and proceeded to nap with us. 

We named this one Pedro. These dogs have the perfect lives: lots of free people food, beautiful weather, and a nice warm bed on the beach every night.

Don't go fishing: seagulls will stalk the hell out of you.

We settled into a lovely routine: we'd wake up early in the morning (or not) to watch the sunrise, then we'd shower, have coffee, and go out to explore the old port. We had lunch one day at a random German restaurant (it was awesome! but no schnitzel on the lunch menu, unfortunately).

In the afternoon, we'd lay on the beach and watch for dolphins, whales, and sea lions. At low tide, we'd explore the reefs and search for crab and octopus.

My shadow pointing at a micro-habitat, all "Staying Alive" disco-style.

In the evenings, we'd go to the bar on the beach for their so-called "aggressive happy hour." It seemed like a pretty chill happy hour to me, but whatever!

Later, we'd make dinner at home (usually something we'd bought from a vendor involving fresh tortillas or homemade tamales), and we'd build a fire and watch the sun set. We made friends with a local guy named Venny, who was our age. He came by to check on us a few times a day and was a welcome source of wisdom about the country/area we were in. I asked him a ton of questions, but usually we just sat around the fire and talked about life.

Venny was pretty awesome. He grew up in Vera Cruz and served in the Mexican military for two years or so. He'd spent time in the States and the Philippines (which he described as "weird and scary"). He had a beautiful 7 year old daughter and a wife. He told us all about his English teacher, how he met his wife, stories about his childhood and his daughter.

He also showed us how to steal wi-fi from our front porch!

Beautiful sunset! And, in the distance, a lone sea lion was barking (or whatever sound it is that they make).

It was really sad to leave. I hated saying goodbye to Venny, but we're Facebook friends now so we can keep in touch. I seriously considered staying and becoming a beach bartender ala Tom Cruise in Cocktail, but alas - I cannot abandon my 401K.

While I was there, another vacationer asked me to tell people in the States not to believe all the media hype because it's perfectly safe. It was true, I did feel quite safe - and the local population relies on tourist traffic for their livelihood. With all the diminished tourism, it's getting harder for them to make ends meet.

I plan on going back as soon as I can, but I wouldn't recommend driving or extensive travel throughout the country. The area I was in was pretty safe (you should go!), but there are plenty of regions that are extremely dangerous. If you're planning a trip, take the time to research the area and try to consult with someone who's familiar with your destination.

Above all, don't be stupid: be mindful of the fact that you're in a foreign country, be cautious and, above all, be respectful.

Duh.

Watch out for these crazy f*cking bunnies at a coffee shop in Ajo, AZ! They will eat your soul.

jewels of the interweb (volume 16)

It's funny because it's true...

Ahhh!!!! Ok, fine - I believe!

For my fellow alcoholics on Pinterest.

honeymooned, part 9 (la fin!)

On our last day in Strasbourg, Georges showed us the European Parliament area and the university hospital where he spent the majority of his career. He showed us a few offices in the university, but was really there for one reason: to show us the hospital's wine cellar.

20, 000 litres of wine! Who wants to dare me to drink it all?

The university has an extensive wine cellar. Because Strasbourg is in wine country, when the people couldn't pay their hospital bills they would instead pay in wine or vineyards. In this way, the hospital/university amassed quite an impressive wine cellar! There were giant, 20,000 litre vats of wine. There was even wine that dated back to 1547!

Wine from the 16th century. I'm pretty sure it does not taste delicious. 

Georges dropped us off at our hotel, and we said our good-byes. The Hauptmanns had been incredible hosts, and Strasbourg was easily our favorite part of our French honeymoon. Anne-Marie waited until Georges wasn't looking, then slipped two more gifts in my purse (a beautiful necklace for me and a wallet for Will). Hopefully by that point she considered us "even" for buying lunch the day before!

As we waved good-bye and started to drive away, Anne-Marie suddenly ran up and pounded on the car window. As we rolled the window down, she told Will in French: "The secret to a long marriage is the memories! All the memories!" Apparently she'd been mulling over my question from two days prior ("what's the secret to a long marriage?"). It was so sweet, and rather dramatic - like a scene from an old French black and white film...

We hopped on the train back to Paris and headed straight to the Hotel Ibis near the airport. We had to get up at 4am to catch our flight, but that didn't deter us from making the most of our last night in France. We had dinner in what can only be called the Denny's of French hotel restaurants, and proceeded to get a little drunk on the Alsatian wine we'd brought back (from Georges' own vineyard!). Then we ambled down to the Hilton and proceeded to drink even more (bad idea). I think we got about an hour of sleep, all told. Being hungover on an international flight is not advised.

Greenland is... melting.

TMI: In Frankfurt during our layover, I realized that I'd started my period early. Unfortunately, I only had honeymoon underwear with me, which wasn't nearly substantial enough for Aunt Flo. Will gallantly offered to let me wear his last pair of clean underwear, which was huge and bunched up under and over my jeans in a very obvious manner. I looked like I was wearing a diaper, but I had no other choice!

When we finally landed, we saw fire engines lined up on both sides of the runway. They began spraying our airplane with water as we taxied by. Were we on fire???? What the hell???

Right as all the passengers began to panic, a flight attendant got on the intercom and explained that this was our pilot's last flight (he was retiring) and this was the customary way of saluting him.

It felt like a fitting way to end our trip; to start our married life with an airport water gun salute. It was a fantastic trip, but it was sooooo good to be home!

NOTE: Now that I've finally finished reminiscing about France, I can write about my trip to Mexico last weekend! After that, I won't be traveling for a while because I'm out of money!

Looks like it's time to stay home and eat ramen for a few months.

honeymooned, part 8 (strasbourg!)

Our time in Paris was over, and we hopped on the express train to Strasbourg (on the French/German border).

The train ride was wonderful; we finally got to see the French countryside, and the weather was perfect. It was mid-November, but everything was so green! I saw French deer, sheep, mules, and cows as we passed little hamlets nestled in the hills. Some of the villages looked more like massive farms, except for the steepled churches in their midst. The train sped through occasional beds of fog before bursting out into another sun-drenched, bucolic paradise.

The downside? Screaming children. They're pretty much awful, no matter what language they're squawking in. After about an hour of them running up and down the aisle, testing their lungs, and banging on things, a fellow passenger stood up and confronted the mother. I don't understand much French, but unbridled annoyance is fairly universal. She announced that she was speaking for the collective and that the woman needed to control her children.

At that point, the mother responded in a sassy/bitchy tone of voice, and I actually started to feel bad for her. Traveling with kids has to suck, period. But she got the hint and took the kids to another car (apparently our car was a designated quiet area - brilliant!).

Will spent the entire train ride on his laptop, playing a computer game. Not just ANY computer game, but a game in which his character was Hitler invading France. Literally, as we sat on the train speeding toward the Maginot Line, my husband was role-playing his takeover of France. Ironic, n'est-ce pas?

Upon arriving in Strasbourg, we were met by Will's uber-distant relative, Georges Hauptmann. Georges is a retired director of hemo-immunology (or something to do with immunities, blood, DNA, and genetics) and is a bit of a genius. I was just relieved that he spoke English!

Georges took us to lunch, then dropped us off at our hotel with the promise to meet us later for dinner. We settled into the hotel room (it was SO NICE to have a normal size shower again!), Will went for a jog and got lost, and I napped like my life depended on it.

View from our hotel window.

Did I mention Georges and his wife Anne-Marie are old as the hills? They'd just celebrated their 50th anniversary, and when I asked them for their secret to marital success, they just looked at each other and shrugged. Anne-Marie clucks at Georges a lot, and he ignores her a lot. They seem to exist in a zone of compromise, where Georges gets to do whatever he wants, but Anne-Marie gets to bitch about it to her heart's content.

We met Georges, Anne-Marie, and their friend Katrina for a traditional Alsatian dinner. There was a lot of meat, sauerkraut, and Alsatian wine, which is predominately white (which I love).  It was a great meal, although I felt like I should be wearing lederhosen the whole time. After dinner, Georges passed around all the geneological data he'd collected on the family. He could tell us all about Will's ancestors; i.e., who married who, how many kids they'd had, what their profession was, if they were famous or just sort of mediocre, etc. It was amazing how much he knew! I felt guilty for knowing so little about my own lineage...

It was much colder than Paris at this altitude in the Alsatian mountains, and you could definitely see the German influence on the architecture. Our hotel was a block away from the Notre Dame of Strasbourg, built in the 13th century.  For someone who isn't religious, I fall in love with old cathedrals quite often. First the Notre Dame of Paris and now the Notre Dame of Strasbourg! According to Georges, each region in the area planned to build a tower for the cathedral but, after the north tower was constructed, it was found to be too heavy so the other three towers were never started. I absolutely adored this lopsided cathedral; its foreboding, intricate red metal visage... and its single steeple lurking behind a wintry fog like a blinking giant.

From Wikipedia, since it was too foggy to get any good photos...

The next day, Georges and Anne-Marie picked us up to drive to Kientzheim, much closer to the German border. This was where Will's ancestors had settled, and where the Hauptmanns owned a summer home. We drove for an hour or so on the highway and passed by a great many medieval castles, but unfortunately it was too foggy to see anything.

We drove through the heart of Alsatian wine country. All the vineyards were guarded/blessed by crucifixes and statues of the Virgin Mary. First we passed through Anne-Marie's hometown of Riquewehr (the first village in the area to be liberated by the Americans in WWII), and up to Kientzheim. The villages were picturesque, with brightly colored homes and stork nests perched on the rooftops; it was as though we'd just traveled back in time a few hundred years.

Will called it "Storybookland"...

Georges and Anne-Marie showed us the restaurant our common ancestor had started in the 17th century, then took us to their summer home where Georges grew up. It used to be a butcher shop and, if you moved through the large doors, you went into an alley that led to their courtyard, stable, and the actual butcher shop. Georges' father was the fire chief and saved the town from burning down in WWII during all the German shelling, with a fancy new water pump that he'd purchased before the war broke out. You can still see scarring in the wooden crossbeams and flooring of the living area, although the outside of the structure has been repaired.

The green building is the Hauptmann's house and the old butcher shop.

Anne-Marie didn't speak any English, but she was extremely entertaining. She kept insisting on buying us gifts, which we turned down out of politeness. Georges had bought several of our meals, so we insisted on paying for lunch in Colmar. Georges, I think, was grateful for the offer but Anne-Marie was horrified. In her mind, as was customary, we were their guests and so they should treat us to... well, everything. It was bad form to let a guest pay for something or, even worse, to buy their host a meal out of gratitude. Sacré bleu!

In retaliation for her free lunch, Anne-Marie amped up the gift-giving a few notches. At this point, she was clearly agitated so we let her buy us a couple small souvenirs and sweets. This seemed to calm her down somewhat, and we even convinced her to take a picture with Will by telling her it was the only souvenir we really wanted - to be able to remember our time with her!

She reminds me of my grandma...

Will and I fell asleep on the way back to Strasbourg, where Georges dropped us off at the hotel and promised to pick us up again in the morning for more touring. These Hauptmanns were indefatiguable hosts!

We had a very relaxed evening, walking around the evening streets of Strasbourg. We finally stopped for dinner at the most romantic bistro ever, sitting by the window in the dimly lit old building and sipping even more Alsatian wine.

More on our last day in France in the final (I promise!) Honeymooned post...

jewels of the interweb (volume 15)

I'm actually headed to Mexico today! I'll make sure to thank Jesus in person.

This "Forest" looks a little lost... and scraggly.

'Nuff said.

i f*cked death in the ear!

Apparently this is a week for reminiscing... I just wrote about my blog's 10 year anniversary, but kind of skimmed over the BIG anniversary in my life. I refer to it as my "I-Fucked-Death-In-The-Ear" Day, although it certainly wasn't humorous at the time.

March 1st, 2002, I almost died. I was involved in a near-fatal car accident and was life-flighted to the hospital, coded as D.O.A.

Every time my heart stopped, they were able to bring me back. According to my father, a very nice doctor with an African-sounding name proclaimed resolutely that I was NOT going to die. I never actually got to meet him, but I still wish I could thank him for not giving up on me.

This same doctor explained to my family that my spleen was damaged like a crushed candy bar - the wrapper was still intact, but the inside business was mangled. Clearly a lot of other things were wrong with me (I was in a coma for almost 3 weeks)... but the imagery of the crushed candy bar stuck with me. I'm not really sure why. For a long time, I felt like my brain was that candy bar. Severe head trauma will have that affect on you!

I couldn't remember words for things. Basic things, like "fork" or "stairs." I couldn't remember how to play a card game that I'd played with my family since the age of 8. I pretended like I remembered because I was too ashamed to admit that all those memories were just... gone. I felt disoriented and disconnected. I looked in the mirror for the first time after the accident and didn't see myself there anymore. 

I can't believe it's been 10 years. I remember feeling as though I'd never get better, that I'd never be the same again. But I kept myself going by thinking: "In 2 years, in 5 years, in 20 years - it will be like this never happened."

Yes and no. It's been a decade, and in some ways it is like it never happened. I'm healthy as a horse; I'm no longer grossly deformed and sporting an eye patch (I looked AWESOME with an eye patch, thank you very much!). On the other hand, a near death experience changes you forever and you can never forget it, no matter how much you might want to. But I don't want to forget it, ever.

Every year, I take the time to thank God, the universe, Buddha, Mohammad, Jesus, Vishnu, all of them, for giving me my life back. More than anything, I'm grateful to the medical professionals who kept me alive and to my family and friends who camped out in waiting rooms for weeks on end (and who put up with my bullshit during months of recovery).

Life is something we should never take for granted but, regrettably, we often forget.

For reals.