vacation

Dec. 2015 Looking back into the archives and realizing how little I have changed. This was that time I spied on George and Amal—in Mexico—and my imagination.

I’m doing it you guys. Every minute of every day so far. I can’t help myself. I am completely and unabashedly obsessed with the property NEXT DOOR to our resort.

When we arrived earlier this week all of the shutters were down.
It was closed up tight. Like the legs of a Catholic school girl, tight. Well, being that I was a Catholic school girl once maybe that’s a bad example—but you know what I mean. Shuttered up. Closed.
“Nothing going on here, move along,” kind of closed.

While the lovely young man was giving my husband the tour of our room, I was craning my neck to the left, hanging precariously off the balcony to get a better look.

“So…what’s the story over there?” I asked this young version of Javier Bardem, waving my sunglasses in that direction, attempting to seem nonchalant; less like a creeper.

“Those are private condos”, he replied, kind of annoyed that I had interrupted his prepared spiel and he’d lost his place and was going to have to start over from the beginning.

Private condos…with their own infinity pools…and a sandy private beach. Me likey.

Now, our resort is nothing to sneeze at. It is gorgeous squared. But I can’t help it—I’m intrigued.

I hear you. Mind your own business. Isn’t that what you’re saying? Well, cut it out.

The next morning I asked Teresa, the woman who was dropping off towels. “Why do you think no one is at those private condos over there?” I inquired, pointing a toe in the general direction while reclining in a lounge chair, sipping an umbrella drink and acting bored. “Why are they all closed up at this time of year?” And then to sound less like a curious paparazzi I added, “I mean, after all, it IS the height of the season.”

She shrugged (in the nicest possible way) then as she closed the door she dropped this cryptic little grenade with a thud right at my feet: “They will come.”

My, how Field of Dreams of her.

So now, every morning after I wake up, the second thing I do is check on the shutter status of those condos.

The first thing I do is pee.

The third thing I do is wish I had a pair of binoculars. I’m just too embarrassed to answer the expected probing questions: Why? What are you going to look at? Or I’d ask for them.
The staff here is so solicitous I can imagine they would print some on a 3D printer for me if I wanted them to.
But I couldn’t withstand the preliminary scrutiny.

“Because I want to stare at those condos over there! Are the shutters open? Are there signs of life? What are they up to over there? You know, stuff like that!”

Mind your own business lady (insert eye roll).
Fail.
Here come the Federales to take me away. At least I have a nice, new pair of 3D printed binocu...

Well, anyway, while I was looking away, you know, living my life, sure enough sometime during the day yesterday, “they come”.

Not only were the shutters pulled aside, several of the large sliding glass doors were thrown open so I could see inside!!! I got so excited I almost dropped my mojito.

It was a vision right out of a magazine. All white interior with large modern art and white furnishings just as I had imagined.
You see, I had imagined an entire scenario over there. Hey, I’d had three whole days for my imagination to run wild!
Three days inside this head is more than a lifetime to most people.

I had manufactured the craziest shit going on over in the private condos.

In my imagination George Clooney and his glamorous, uber-skinny wife Amal inhabit the entire top floor, which totally makes sense since I haven’t seen a soul. Not one sign of life besides open shutters. They are stealth those two. They. Are. Pros.
Amal is probably standing right there, turned sideways so I can’t see her. Well played, Amal.
Smart girl.

On the second story are Cindy Crawford and Randy Gerber…oh yeah and their kids I suppose. But who cares? You guys! Cindy fucking Crawford! Yucking it up at MY private condos! On MY private beach!
I know those two couples vacation together in Mexico. I have it from the most reliable of sources. Instagram.

THAT is the truth. The rest of this is a pack of lies…or is it?

Yesterday I was in the men’s section of the spa (you don’t want to know) where they have the most incredible birds eye view of MY private condos from their window seats, so I ran like the wind back to my locker on the lady’s side to get my phone in order to take this picture. I was desperately hoping I wouldn’t have to explain to any indignant man with his penis at eye level (remember, I’m in the men’s section) why I’m sitting with my face pressed against the glass, taking pictures IN A SPA—and lucky for me, (and him), I did not.

Never mind.

From that vantage point, I had such a great view of their perfect little sandy beach.
It made me want to brave the jagged rocks and pounding surf that surround our resort and Diana Nyad my way over there. But if you remember from the 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me, I’m a weak swimmer and I didn’t want to wash up all waterlogged and choking up seaweed— Hell no! I want to walk out of the surf impossibly hot, like fucking Haley Barry in that James Bond film I can’t remember the name of.

So I axed that plan.

This evening there were many open shutters. “They HAD come.”
Still no sign of any human life. Maybe people THAT fantastic are invisible to us mere mortals. I’ll have to Google that when I get a chance.

I’m currently imagining one hell of a New Year’s Eve bash over there after I’m gone.
Fireworks, Casa Amigos Tequila flowing like…Tequila flows in Mexico, the whole shebang. George, Cindy, sideways Amal and Randy…and the kids I guess. In MY beautiful, hillside private condos.

So…are you at least a little like me?
Do you LOVE to look in other people’s windows?
Do you spend hours imaging the going’s on over at your resort-adjacent neighbors fabulous condos?
Do you make up entire lives just-over-there in order to amuse yourself?

You do? Me too! Let’s all fly our freak-flags together!

Or are you thinking this girl’s got too much time on her hands! Mind your own business, Janet! You’re being just plain nosey?
Perhaps.

Eh Hem, I just like to call it curiosity.

Am I missing the moment? Probably. Or maybe I’m creating my own. I would be advising you all to be in the moment, wouldn’t I?

Fuck that. I’m having a ball.
Almost as good of a time as the Clooney’s.

Carry on,
xox

I’m doing it you guys. Every minute of every day so far. I can’t help myself. I am completely and unabashedly obsessed with the property NEXT DOOR to our resort.

When we arrived earlier this week all of the shutters were down.
It was closed up tight. Like the legs of a Catholic school girl, tight. Well, being that I was a Catholic school girl once maybe that’s a bad example—but you know what I mean. Shuttered up. Closed.
“Nothing going on here, move along”, kind of closed.

While the lovely young man was giving my husband the tour of our room I was craning my neck to the left, hanging precariously off the balcony to get a better look.

“So…what’s the story over there?” I asked our sweet guy trying to sound nonchalant, less like a creeper.

“Those are private condos”, he replied, kind of annoyed that I had interrupted his prepared spiel and he’d lost his place and was going to have to start all over.

Private condos. With their own infinity pools. And a sandy private beach. Me likey.

Now, our resort is nothing to sneeze at. It is gorgeous squared. But I can’t help it—I’m intrigued.

I hear you. Mind your own business. Isn’t that what you’re saying? Well, cut it out.

The next morning I asked the woman who was dropping off towels, “Why do you think no one is at those private condos over there, why are they all closed up at this time of year?” So I at least sounded like I knew what I was talking about and less like a curious paparazzi, I added, “After all, it’s the height of the season.”

She shrugged (in the nicest possible way), then as she closed the door she dropped this cryptic little grenade with a thud right at my feet: “They will come.”

My, how Field of Dreams of her.

Now, the second thing I do in the mornings is to check on the shutter status of those condos.

The first thing I do is pee. The third thing I do is wish I had a pair of binoculars. I’m just too embarrassed to answer the expected probing questions: “Why? What are you going to look at?”, or I’d ask for them.
The staff here is so solicitous they would print some on a 3d printer for me if I wanted them to.
But I can’t stand the preliminary scrutiny.

I want to stare at those condos over there! Are the shutters open? Are there signs of life? What are they up to over there? You know, stuff like that!

Mind your own business lady.
Fail.
Here come the Federales to take me away. At least I have a nice, new pair of binocu…

Well, while I was looking away, you know, living my life, sure enough sometime during the day yesterday, “they come”.

Not only were the shutters pulled aside, several of the large sliding glass doors were thrown open so I could see inside!!! I got so excited I almost dropped my mojito.

It was a vision right out of a magazine. All white interior with large modern art and white furnishings just as I had imagined.
You see, I had imagined an entire scenario over there. Hey, I’d had three whole days!
Three days inside this head is more than a lifetime to most people.

I had manufactured the craziest shit going on over in the private condos.

In my imagination George Clooney and his uber-skinny wife Amal inhabit the entire top floor, which totally makes sense since I haven’t seen a soul. Not one sign of life besides open shutters. They are stealth those two. They. Are. Pros.
Amal is probably standing right there, turned sideways so I can’t see her.
Smart girl.

On the second story are Cindy Crawford and Randy Gerber…oh yeah and their kids I suppose. But who cares? You guys! Cindy fucking Crawford! Yucking it up at MY private condos! On MY private beach!
I know those two couples vacation together in Mexico. I have it from the most reliable of sources. Instagram.

THAT is the truth. The rest of this is a pack of lies…or is it?

Yesterday I was in the men’s section of the spa (you don’t want to know), where they have the most incredible birds eye view of MY private condos from their window seats, so I ran like the wind back to my locker on the ladies side to get my phone in order to take this picture. I was desperately hoping I wouldn’t have to explain to any indignanat man with his penis at eye level (remember, I’m in the men’s section) why I’m sitting with my face pressed against the glass, taking pictures IN A SPA—and lucky for me, (and him), I did not.

Never mind.
From that vantage point, I had such a great view of their perfect little sandy beach.
It made me want to brave the jagged rocks and pounding surf that surround our resort and Diana Nyad my way over there. But if you remember from the 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me, I’m a weak swimmer and I didn’t want to wash up all waterlogged and choking up seaweed— Hell no! I wanted to walk out of the surf impossibly hot, like fucking Haley Barry in that James Bond film I can’t remember the name of.

So I axed that plan.

This evening there were many open shutters. “They HAD come.”
Still no sign of any human life. Maybe people THAT fantastic are invisible to us mere mortals. I’ll have to Google that when I get a chance.

I’m currently imagining one hell of a New Year’s Eve bash over there after I’m gone.
Fireworks, Casa Amigos Tequila flowing like…Tequila flows in Mexico. The whole shebang. George, Cindy, sideways Amal and Randy…and the kids I guess. In MY beautiful, hillside private condos.

So…are you at least a little like me?
Do you LOVE to look in other people’s windows?
Do you spend hours imaging the going’s on over at your resort-adjacent neighbors fabulous condos?
Do you make up entire lives just-over-there in order to amuse yourself?

You do? Me too! Let’s all fly our freak-flags together!

Or are you thinking this girl’s got too much time on her hands! Mind your own business, Janet! You’re being just plain nosey?
Perhaps.

Am I missing the moment? Probably. Or maybe I’m creating my own. I would be advising you all to be in the moment, wouldn’t I?

Fuck that. I’m having a ball.
Almost as good of a time as the Clooney’s.

Carry on,
xox

I told myself I wasn’t going to “work”. I could lay off the writing for a week. Just seven short days, right? Take notice of my exotic surroundings without my head buried in a computer?

Note to self: No head burying. Be present. Take it ALL in.

Wrongo. Add this to the looming list of other lies I’ve told myself. And promises I’ve broken. To me.

But I can’t help it! (said in the voice of a whining five-year-old).

Here’s the thing you guys and I’m betting, with all my chips on the table, that YOU are a lot like me.

I came to this glorious place to unwind—to free my spirit. But it’s making me sad. My spirit is unbounded—but sad. I’m going to bed sad. Okay, maybe a little buzzed too, but most definitely sad.
And I’m waking up…sad.

In fucking paradise!
How is that possible?
What in the hell is my problem? This should at the very least be a misdemeanor, right?

I don’t like it when my emotions are mismatched inappropriately to a situation. Like that time I laughed hysterically all the way home after being fired or acted chirpy, grateful and giddy when our dog died suddenly.

It makes me profoundly curious—and deeply suspicious. What’s the back-story here? Wtf is going on?
Wait. Am I alone here? Does that happen to you?

For three days I’ve “observed” the feelings. I’ve “observed” the shit out of them.
Huh. I said over and over. Huh. Sad in paradise. That’s just not right. Someone should take away my humanity card.

Then my head started to hurt.
Huh. Look at that. Headaches in paradise. Clearly I’m a hopeless case.
You guys, I’m an ungrateful, whining, hopeless case of a sad-sack.

Finally, after many hours of contemplation and tons of Advil, I figured it out. Duh. (not the sharpest tool in the shed either).

I was sad and my head ached from all of the unexpressed ideas I was having!
My brain was overflowing with inspiration, but I had made a pact with myself to simply enjoy my vacation unencumbered by my compulsion to write.

The thing is, I usually write the ideas down in the moment they occur. Which was waaaay more often than even I realized.
I grab any random scrap of paper, candy wrapper, gum wrapper, fast food wrapper (you get the idea). Or, I dictate these flashes of brilliance, these nuggets of wonderfulness into my phone.
“The color orange is my new religion” or “I am just the toaster.”

I know. I KNOW! Don’t revolt now. At least wait until the end.

You see, that’s how posts like this one get started, and if I don’t get the ideas out of my head they pile up. My brain becomes constipated and I get a whopper of a headache. And I get sad. And bitchy.
It’s a blessing and a curse. What can I say?

I Can’t Always Just Write. I Want to Live My Life Too!

“Aren’t you supposed to be basking in the Mexican sun?” my dear friend Steph asked me after receiving my third snarky email in a row. And a video. I sent her a hilarious YouTube video. From Mexico. The poor thing had become my only outlet for all things creative—and funny.

This morning over coffee. Coffee in paradise. I informed my sweet and patient husband that I would be finding a cabana by the pool, someplace in the shade so I don’t melt, and I would be writing.

All damn day.

Someplace where I can look up and admire my surroundings, take a moment to express my immense gratitude to the Universe, and then write my face off.

Just the thought of that made me giddy.

Here I am, ratting myself out to all of you—again, and I don’t even care. Not a flinch. I actually have a gigantic smile on my face.

Personal epiphany: Writing is not work to me. It is an integral part of my life.
A part I cannot ignore or push aside (who knew?). It fuels my soul. It makes me deliriously, ridiculously happy.
Happier than paradise.
Well played but…Sorry paradise.

What makes you sad if you don’t allow yourself to just fucking “do it?”

Carry on,
xox

GULLIBLE
gul·li·ble
adjective
Easily persuaded to believe something; credulous.

synonyms: credulous, naive, over trusting, over trustful, easily deceived, easily taken in, exploitable, dupable, impressionable, unsuspecting, unsuspicious, unwary, ingenuous, innocent, inexperienced, unworldly, green

I have a real problem with…bending the truth.

Never mind that, let’s call it what it is: lying.

I was slow to learn that deception can be so blatant. But I did…eventually.

Now you can deliver an untruth to me on a silver platter, but I’ll still call bullshit on it all day long. Why?
Um…because it’s a lie!

Here’s what I mean.

People that accept all the accolades and compliments because they look so goddamn great for their age — that have clearly had surgical help.
Pahleeeeez!

Mascara commercials where the actress is very obviously wearing false eyelashes.
Come on.

A twenty-eight year old, airbrushed within an inch of her life, pitching us fifty something’s wrinkle cream. “Gee, maybe I’ll look like that if I spend one hundred dollars for an ounce of this magical concoction made from the frothy uterine lining of a unicorn.”

What do you take me for, a fucking moron?
Just how gullible do you think I am?

What about vacation rental listings?

Cozy little cottage by the beach.

The pictures online look idyllic.
“You’re so lucky it’s still available”, the woman gushes over the phone. The word miracle is even used, and you know how that gets me going.

So I plunk down a hefty chunk of change and when I arrive at the destination I’m convinced Garmin is stoned.
“The destination is on your right.”

“Stop it Garmin, don’t fuck with me! I just drove six hours and I’ve gotta pee like a racehorse.”

I blink, then blink again, slowly sliding my sunglasses down my nose to get a clearer view. Then I roll down the window.
Still sucks.
EJECT — Out comes the CD. There is no soundtrack for moments like this.
I want to vomit.

There it is in front of me, all set for our Labor Day weekend pleasure.

An itty-bitty shit hole of a shack. Over a mile away from the beach. There aren’t even seagulls overhead or any traffic, that’s how far away my beach cottage is from actual sand and surf.

I fumble inside my beach bag which is doubling as my purse for the weekend. Lost inside is the printout from the agency, never taking my eyes off the disaster in front of me, I find it.

I’m in shock, it’s a train wreak — therefore it’s impossible to look away.

That’s when I realize that mid road trip, (probably about the time I was reaching for change at Foster Freeze), my sunscreen opened and has thoughtfully covered pretty much everything in my bag with its SPF 50.

Even so, I can still make out the address. 12 Gorgeous Vista Road.
It’s a match, but it ain’t gorgeous and it has no vista to speak of.

Fuck. Even the name of the street tells a lie.

It is smaller than my first single apartment, yet it says right on the page in front of me: sleeps six.
My mind leaps ahead a few hours. Fitting all of my friends inside that shack will be like stuffing a clown car.

What to do, what to do?
See, here’s the problem: who do I kill first?

The gullible one who drank the rental agency Kool-Aid (me), the crazy red-head at the agency who was so chirpy as she handed me the keys? (Sucker, that’s what it says on my form in her office — I’m sure of it — Sucker Bertolus.)

The pimply faced guy at the car rental agency who said it wasn’t far, (it was) and that it was in a great neighborhood (it isn’t)?

It’s clear to me now that they are all in cahoots.

Wait…was that a gunshot?

Window…up.

What about all those helpful friends who gave me the name of this agency and had such glowing vacation house stories?

They all get to live.
It was me. It was my fault.
I was over trusting and easily exploitable.

I should be in every advertising test group. I’m their target idiot audience.

I made a vow right then and there that I would never fall for that sort of LIE again. That I would pay the other half of the deposit after I saw the property, and that I would carry a separate smaller purse inside my beach bag.

Just like I wanted to believe that the last available house on a holiday weekend was Shangra-fucking-La, I want to believe that a mascara can give you the same lush lashes as two pairs of falsies, (I have a drawer full of both), and that applying an expensive miracle cream will erase fifty-seven years of laugh lines, (same drawer).

Am I gullible or have I been lied to? What do you think? Both?

How gullible are you guys? Stories please.

Carry on,
Xox

“We have perfected the attitude of worry. If we don’t have something to worry about, that worries us.”—Michele Longo O’Donnell

Stress is a thug and a thief.
It’s a thug because it has such little regard for our well being, and a thief because it absconds with BIG chunks of our time.
They add up.

Stress, that jerk, has looted years of accumulated hours from my life.

So I have no problem giving stress the finger, whenever I can.

I take great glee in pissing it off.

Here are the top ten things that piss-off stress.
Practice them wisely…..and often.

1) Rest.
Stress HATES when we’re well rested. We make better decisions, we’re on our game and less likely to muck things up.
Naps, long weekends and vacations are its Kryptonite.

2) A Sense of Humor/Laughing.
Have you ever tried to laugh while completely stressed out? A real, deep belly laugh? It’s almost impossible. It’s akin to keeping your eyes open when you sneeze. The two CANNOT co-exist.

3) Asking for help.
Stress can’t stand it when we realize our limitations, delegate and ask for help. It needs a frazzled, over extended, perfectionist, control freak as a host. Calling in the Calvary BEFORE you’ve reached your wit’s end, sends stress the silent Jedi signal: This is not the droid you’re looking for.

4) Believing you have enough.
If you believe you have enough time, money, resources, help and happiness, you will be invisible to stress. It will pass your house and go torment your neighbors.

5) Exercise.
Yes, it is possible to outrun stress. You can outrun it on the treadmill, or with the dogs at the park. Once that heart rate goes up and those endorphins kick in, stress will NOT be able to keep up. Stress carb loads; it always goes for seconds, eats peanut butter out of the jar with a serving spoon, and parks illegally in the handicapped space, so it never has to walk far. Stress hates a fit body and a clear head.

6) Organization.
When you’re well organized, meaning, you know where everything is, and can easily find it, stress has a shit fit.
How can it fuck with you and mess with your head, if you can immediately come up with your passport, keys, glasses, insurance papers, rent check, stamps, cat nail clipper and both of the same black sandals?

7) Behaving like a grown up.
Stress despises adult behavior. Stress is counting on us to NEVER grow up. It adores a good temper tantrum and will do everything in its power to keep us from getting our ducks in a row. As a matter of fact, it is heavily invested in the prospect of us not saving for retirement, avoiding responsibility, making uninformed decisions and never planning for the future.

8) Self care.
This pisses-off stress almost more than anything. Getting a massage, doing yoga and meditating. Those are three of its mortal enemies. It throws its hands up, shakes its head and walks away in defeat. It can’t take hold of a peaceful mind.

9) Not caring what other people think.
Once you drop that bad habit, stress will have to go find another victim. Don’t feel bad for a second. There are millions.

10) Awareness.
Stress has a fit when you call it out. It can’t stand that you know its name and what it looks like.
It would rather stay anonymous, in one of its many disguises. As a headache, an ulcer, colitis, hives, over eating, over spending, depression and anxiety.
I told you, it’s a thug.
It knows, that once you know why it’s there, it’s days are numbered.

Can you think of more ways to piss off stress? Tell me what you do, I’d LOVE to hear some comments!

Xox