Last weekend was my 10 year college reunion from the United States Naval Academy. I love Annapolis, and I love Navy, but after last weekend, I must admit, I am over it. And I am never drinking again.
Kid Rock said it best in "Cowboy" - "Give a toast to the sun. Drink with the stars. Get thrown in the mix and tossed out of bars.” And that’s pretty much how it happened. I’m from Grosse Pointe, so I can’t quite claim to rep the same hood he raps about. But last weekend I was representing the trailer park like an extra from 8 Mile.
I am a pretty confrontational person in general. I never shy away from an argument and I’m not one to hold my tongue… for any reason. So, when a bouncer at the bar I was at started swearing at me for walking behind a restricted area, I told him I did not appreciate his tone. Confusing my general sassiness with the antics of a drunken sailor, he then proceeded to escort me from the bar. He clearly does not know. Get a white girl angry and she will write a sternly-worded-letter to the proper authorities. Get a Latina angry and she will set-your-shit-on-fire. The next time I walk in there will be to destroy it. I think that’s more than fair.
So I leave and go to a different bar but I am feeling incredibly emotional… because (!!!) I am intoxicated. To calm myself down I immediately order and down a vodka club soda. Drinking more is always a good idea. Then I become even more emotional. I run up to the bathroom, go into a stall and begin to sob. If Rosario Dawson could shed my tears she would win an Oscar and never have to make a movie about a run-away train again. My sobs are the most pathetic sounds you will ever hear anyone or anything make. Worse than a whimpering puppy. Pathetic.
A sympathetic girl in the stall next to me asks in her kindest voice, “What’s wrong, sweetie? Is it a boy?”
“No! It is not a boy,” I cry. As if any boy could ever make me feel as horrible as I feel at this moment. I mean, obviously this kind of pain can only be from getting kicked out of a bar by a short, ugly, uneducated bouncer. This is the absolute worst life has to offer.
We both leave our stalls and the sweet girl happens to be the new wife of a guy I had known in college. We look at each other and say nothing. Awk-waaaard. She turns and leaves. My sobs resume.
Later that evening, I manage to get control of myself and fall completely in love with a boy I had a crush on during my days as a Midshipman. Being the vixen that I am, I get him to walk me home. So we proceed to make out in the middle of a dark street. Classy, I know. I made a mental note to buy a dog and walk it in front of his apartment until he falls in love with me too. Because that’s not weird at all.
I walk into my house (alone), armed with butterflies in my stomach and stars in my eyes. Then I find two guys laid out on the couches and another on the floor in the fetal position with his pants around his ankles. Any sober person would take pictures and a video. Instead, I kick off my shoes and fall into bed.
The next morning is just painful. My eyes are swollen from crying. My head is throbbing from drinking. My very soul is exhausted from acting like a 21 year-old. I head out the house and find a mysterious stain on the rug in place of the drunken guy with his pants around his ankles. My housemates and I will later learn that it is a $5,000 rug with papers to prove it. The owner of the house is a West Point grad. What kind of a douche bag leaves a $5,000 rug in a rental house? I don’t know how they do it in Upstate New York, but in Annapolis leaving a $5,000 anything around sailors and marines is never a good idea.
I go to brunch looking as well dressed and manicured as a homeless person. So naturally I would run into the Mrs. Old Flame from the previous night in the bar bathroom. Hot.
I honestly wish the story could end here. As if it needs to go any further…
I sober up and leave Annapolis. Obviously not having gotten enough of the city the previous 3 days, I head to Cantlers with my best friend and her husband. Not having liked my last Annapolis impression of hobo-couture, I don a super cute J-Crew dress and 4-inch peep toe heels. Fabulous, right?
We sit by the water and enjoy cold beers. The waitress comes by and tries to save herself a few seconds by recklessly reaching over my head with a tray full of Old Bay Seasoning. She trips and dumps the entire tray directly on top of me. I am frozen in shock. It's like an episode of I Love Lucy. I stand up and it is as if I have crabs in my hair. My face is red from the seasoning. My dress is smothered in crab sauce. I smell like crab. Kid Rock said he would paint the town red. Well, I did that and got myself painted red in the process.
Dress ruined, smelling like the main ingredient of she-crab soup, I head into town feeling annoyed and mischievous. I have a few more drinks (always a good idea). It starts to downpour and my friend and I wait in a corner shop while her husband gets the car.
I see two athletic handsome men who clearly go to the Naval Academy. In the sexiest voice I can manage, I say, “Hey boys, are you two Midshipman?" I'm just trying to see if I still got it with Old Bay Musk. They turn around with the look of pure joy in their eyes. They are two boys, we are two girls. They think it’s about to go down. But my friend turns them away and tells them to keep walking. Their shoulders slump a little.
And then it hits me. Karma, like me, is a bitch. Maybe I should stop laughing at homeless people, stealing candy from children, and playing with 20 year-old boys who don’t stand a chance. Because this is exactly what happened to Britney. A couple of drunken mishaps, trysts with unsuspecting boys, run-ins with Old Bay - and her career was over. If I shave my head, someone please organize an intervention.
Aside from all of the antics of that weekend, the truth is that no matter how much I love my school it is tough going back. As a brown female, that school made me feel invisible. And last weekend I was transported back in time 10 years. All of the mids, back with their Ricky-Bobby-Smokin’-Hot-Wives all seemed to fit in in a way that I never could. It is tough for me to see that. They call Academy grads "Ring Knockers." I earned my ring not with a great piece of ass, but with four years of busting my ass.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t care about fitting in. I think it’s a natural emotion and pretty common among most well adjusted people. But sometimes, you find yourself at a Rick Perry fundraiser and it’s OK not to belong. The things that made me different at the Naval Academy are some of the things that I love most about myself. So maybe in Downtown Annapolis I am an invisible girl who gets tossed out of bars and doused in Old Bay Seasoning. But outside of that town I am a fabulous woman who falls on dates and does the robot in dance clubs. I'm okay with that.
Annapolis, I love you. But honestly, you give me angina. IHTFP and will need every second of the next five years to recover for our next reunion. See you then snitches.
PS… A bottle of Malbec is not “drinking.” Just sayin.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
I WANT MY BABY BACK, BABY BACK, BABY BACK...
CHILE!
My sister, Amelia, was born 20 years ago today. I was the baby in the family until she came along and ruined everything. My sister is single-handedly responsible for my dislike of toddlers.
Louisville, Kentucky Circa 1993
My sister, a screaming 2 year-old, pounds at a glass screened door willing her parents to return from a night out. I try soothing words (she can’t hear them over her screams). I try The Lion King (who doesn’t love Hakunah Matata?!). I try a cookie (good girl – never too young to start thinking about your hips). None of it works. Finally, I walk out of the front door and leave her alone to cry after me. But in my defense (!!!)… I only walk around to the side of the house; I don’t actually leave. And it’s not like I give her Nyquil. Or vodka. Or duct-tape her mouth shut. Or smother her screams with a pillow. Give me a break - I was only 14! If it makes you feel any better I don’t care much for teenagers either.
Grosse Pointe, Michigan Circa 1999
I’m home from college and for whatever reason, happen to change clothes in front of her. The girl looks at my body and screams bloody murder then runs out of the room. (I will have you know that this is the first and only time someone has seen me sans clothing and runs, thank you!). Apparently she noticed the new belly button piercing that I got during my spring break trip in Miami. She does not yet realize that there are worse things one can pick up on South Beach. Honestly, what a drama queen! We obviously have nothing in common.
Seriously, for sisters who share DNA and grew up with the same parents, it really is surprising how different we are. I’ve met Rosario Dawson in person. Besides wanting to follow her home like a lost puppy, I kept thinking, how do I look more like this complete stranger than I do my own flesh and blood sister? Perhaps I was right all along… my parents found Amelia in a dumpster, felt pity for her and brought her home. It certainly would explain why she is a vegetarian and I eat steak rare enough to ooze blood down the side of my mouth, using only the back of my hand to wipe it clean.
Amelia would rather join the Peace Corps than walk a day in combat boots. She cannot do the robot. She cannot quote Top Gun. She wears a D-cup. But before you think she is a complete loser…
Valparaiso Chile, Present Day
Amelia is a junior in college, getting a double major and minor in Spanish. She is studying in South America for the semester. I could go on and on about her accomplishments, but you know how I hate to brag, even if it is on behalf of my smart, gorgeous, cool, quirky, loving and amazing sister.
Despite our differences we love each other as much as any sisters could. I would rather walk through fire than see her in pain. And no matter how old she gets she will still be my baby sister who will remain almost but not quite as pretty as me.
Amelia Teresa, aka Smelly Mellie
I would like to congratulate her on her birth, on this the day of her birth. And may her first drink tonight be paid for by a masculine Chilean.
My sister, Amelia, was born 20 years ago today. I was the baby in the family until she came along and ruined everything. My sister is single-handedly responsible for my dislike of toddlers.
Louisville, Kentucky Circa 1993
My sister, a screaming 2 year-old, pounds at a glass screened door willing her parents to return from a night out. I try soothing words (she can’t hear them over her screams). I try The Lion King (who doesn’t love Hakunah Matata?!). I try a cookie (good girl – never too young to start thinking about your hips). None of it works. Finally, I walk out of the front door and leave her alone to cry after me. But in my defense (!!!)… I only walk around to the side of the house; I don’t actually leave. And it’s not like I give her Nyquil. Or vodka. Or duct-tape her mouth shut. Or smother her screams with a pillow. Give me a break - I was only 14! If it makes you feel any better I don’t care much for teenagers either.
Grosse Pointe, Michigan Circa 1999
I’m home from college and for whatever reason, happen to change clothes in front of her. The girl looks at my body and screams bloody murder then runs out of the room. (I will have you know that this is the first and only time someone has seen me sans clothing and runs, thank you!). Apparently she noticed the new belly button piercing that I got during my spring break trip in Miami. She does not yet realize that there are worse things one can pick up on South Beach. Honestly, what a drama queen! We obviously have nothing in common.
Seriously, for sisters who share DNA and grew up with the same parents, it really is surprising how different we are. I’ve met Rosario Dawson in person. Besides wanting to follow her home like a lost puppy, I kept thinking, how do I look more like this complete stranger than I do my own flesh and blood sister? Perhaps I was right all along… my parents found Amelia in a dumpster, felt pity for her and brought her home. It certainly would explain why she is a vegetarian and I eat steak rare enough to ooze blood down the side of my mouth, using only the back of my hand to wipe it clean.
Amelia would rather join the Peace Corps than walk a day in combat boots. She cannot do the robot. She cannot quote Top Gun. She wears a D-cup. But before you think she is a complete loser…
Valparaiso Chile, Present Day
Amelia is a junior in college, getting a double major and minor in Spanish. She is studying in South America for the semester. I could go on and on about her accomplishments, but you know how I hate to brag, even if it is on behalf of my smart, gorgeous, cool, quirky, loving and amazing sister.
Despite our differences we love each other as much as any sisters could. I would rather walk through fire than see her in pain. And no matter how old she gets she will still be my baby sister who will remain almost but not quite as pretty as me.
Amelia Teresa, aka Smelly Mellie
I would like to congratulate her on her birth, on this the day of her birth. And may her first drink tonight be paid for by a masculine Chilean.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
THE ANTHOLOGY
I have Tribe fever. So does the rest of the country it seems. I haven’t seen the documentary, but there have been too many nods to Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest lately not to rekindle my long-standing love affair with ATCQ.
I’m not a jealous person. In relationships, I feel like the man I’m with is with me because he wants to be; other women have little bearing on that. Jealousy seems like a wasted emotion. But “jealous” is the only word befitting of my feelings for other people’s affinity for my band. A Tribe Called Quest is mine. They are my precious.
I spent my summers ‘back in the day on the Boulevard on Linden.’ While Chaz Michael Michaels was summering in Cape Cod, I was with my brother on 229th Street in Queens. I was the only girl on the block, as always trying to fit in with the boys. While I loved Barbie and Jem with the passion of the girly-est of girls, my summers were reserved for riding bikes, playing war games, jumping fences, climbing trees and (when we could scrounge up the money) walking two blocks to Linden Blvd to buy some Jamaican patties and coco bread. So you see, “Check the Rhime” was obviously written for me.
I left New York in the summer of 1988. I moved to Kentucky. There was no more diversity in my life. The rest of my adolescence was completely surrounded by Becky’s and Todd’s. And they did not like me or my ‘black hair and fat-ass thighs.’ So when ATCQ shook the hip-hop world in the 90’s, they reminded me of a time when I fit in. Their music made me feel like my brown skin and full lips (which Becky made fun of every day) were the standard of beauty, not shame. In a school where New Kids on the Block was the standard of cool for girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, I found a standard of cool that would come to transgress race and time.
ATCQ sort of fills my quotient of cool. I mean, I do not have a single dance move past the year 1992. I believe the Running Man is both an excellent workout and an effective way of expressing one's feelings of joy when an awesome song is playing. Additionally, the snake is such a natural movement that I imagine Bach did it as he was composing the Cello Suites. But when I left New York, all those many years ago, it was like my cool injections stopped. Forget the girl who peaked in high school. I leveled out at the age of nine. But at least I don’t need lip injections.
So go ahead and throw on your copy of The Anthology. Replay “Electric Relaxation” one or two or ten times. But remember, they don’t belong to you. ATCQ is mine.
I’m not a jealous person. In relationships, I feel like the man I’m with is with me because he wants to be; other women have little bearing on that. Jealousy seems like a wasted emotion. But “jealous” is the only word befitting of my feelings for other people’s affinity for my band. A Tribe Called Quest is mine. They are my precious.
I spent my summers ‘back in the day on the Boulevard on Linden.’ While Chaz Michael Michaels was summering in Cape Cod, I was with my brother on 229th Street in Queens. I was the only girl on the block, as always trying to fit in with the boys. While I loved Barbie and Jem with the passion of the girly-est of girls, my summers were reserved for riding bikes, playing war games, jumping fences, climbing trees and (when we could scrounge up the money) walking two blocks to Linden Blvd to buy some Jamaican patties and coco bread. So you see, “Check the Rhime” was obviously written for me.
I left New York in the summer of 1988. I moved to Kentucky. There was no more diversity in my life. The rest of my adolescence was completely surrounded by Becky’s and Todd’s. And they did not like me or my ‘black hair and fat-ass thighs.’ So when ATCQ shook the hip-hop world in the 90’s, they reminded me of a time when I fit in. Their music made me feel like my brown skin and full lips (which Becky made fun of every day) were the standard of beauty, not shame. In a school where New Kids on the Block was the standard of cool for girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, I found a standard of cool that would come to transgress race and time.
ATCQ sort of fills my quotient of cool. I mean, I do not have a single dance move past the year 1992. I believe the Running Man is both an excellent workout and an effective way of expressing one's feelings of joy when an awesome song is playing. Additionally, the snake is such a natural movement that I imagine Bach did it as he was composing the Cello Suites. But when I left New York, all those many years ago, it was like my cool injections stopped. Forget the girl who peaked in high school. I leveled out at the age of nine. But at least I don’t need lip injections.
So go ahead and throw on your copy of The Anthology. Replay “Electric Relaxation” one or two or ten times. But remember, they don’t belong to you. ATCQ is mine.
Monday, July 18, 2011
BURN THE WITCH. BURN HER!
I feel like my life would have been better served having attended the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (as a witch, not a wizard) rather than The United States Naval Academy (as a midshipman, not a goat). I hate to rag on my Alma Mater, but the ability to cast spells and transfigurate would be way more useful to me than knowing the General Orders of the Sentry or being able to kill a man with my bare hands (which I have done on occasion as part of Seal Team 6-126). For example, I could have stopped all of my body weight (mid-fall) from landing squarely on my bum when I was rollerblading this morning simply by chanting: “ARRESTO MOMENTUM!” Instead, I know things like ‘Set Condition Circle Zebra’ and ‘Red Over Red, the Captain is Dead.’ I don’t even own a boat.
When I fall, it is equal parts embarrassing and a relief. I don’t really have to explain the embarrassing part except to elaborate that every time it happens I am in the middle of thinking, “I am sooo cute…” in my short shorts, high heels, tight jeans, etc. (It’s like I bring these things on myself, really.) The relief comes from being able to restart the clock, lengthening the time until my next fall or accident. But when Hermione Granger restarts the clock she actually gets to travel back through time. Life as a muggle can be so unfair.
I ended an era last Friday, sobbing through the last of the Harry Potter films; wailing as Severus Snape was violently murdered and then later (yes, this is a world of magic) confessed his love for the boy who lived. The crying I did at the Naval Academy was not quite as cathartic.
I think there is a little bit of magic in this life, though sometimes disguised. Lately, I have been unable to maintain any semblance of a diet. Obviously, this was some form of unconscious divinity, preparing me for the extra “cushioning” I so desperately needed during my fall this morning. It’s just that as a witch I could chant “LIPO-SUCTIONOUS” and instantly return to my ideal weight. As it stands, I am not allowed to eat anything but iceberg lettuce until September, when I will gather with my classmates for my Naval Academy reunion (since being skinny is the only thing I will have going for me). I mean, I still have some sequencing to work out for my Cold Fusion formula and my cure for cancer is still pending FDA approval. So until then, I’m relying on my looks to get me through unscathed. It’s just that if I could turn someone into a toad or even perform a cruciatus curse on just a couple of ever deserving tools, it’d be a lot cooler.
I think my clumsiness is perhaps due to an inner ear infection. The Navy doctors obviously missed this. The examiners at Hogwarts would have spotted and treated my major malfunction with a flick of their wrist, making me as graceful as a Veela. Harry Potter, I’m gonna miss you so much it hurts. Almost as much as my scraped palms and bruised tailbone.
“REPARO!”
Nope. Still hurts…
When I fall, it is equal parts embarrassing and a relief. I don’t really have to explain the embarrassing part except to elaborate that every time it happens I am in the middle of thinking, “I am sooo cute…” in my short shorts, high heels, tight jeans, etc. (It’s like I bring these things on myself, really.) The relief comes from being able to restart the clock, lengthening the time until my next fall or accident. But when Hermione Granger restarts the clock she actually gets to travel back through time. Life as a muggle can be so unfair.
I ended an era last Friday, sobbing through the last of the Harry Potter films; wailing as Severus Snape was violently murdered and then later (yes, this is a world of magic) confessed his love for the boy who lived. The crying I did at the Naval Academy was not quite as cathartic.
I think there is a little bit of magic in this life, though sometimes disguised. Lately, I have been unable to maintain any semblance of a diet. Obviously, this was some form of unconscious divinity, preparing me for the extra “cushioning” I so desperately needed during my fall this morning. It’s just that as a witch I could chant “LIPO-SUCTIONOUS” and instantly return to my ideal weight. As it stands, I am not allowed to eat anything but iceberg lettuce until September, when I will gather with my classmates for my Naval Academy reunion (since being skinny is the only thing I will have going for me). I mean, I still have some sequencing to work out for my Cold Fusion formula and my cure for cancer is still pending FDA approval. So until then, I’m relying on my looks to get me through unscathed. It’s just that if I could turn someone into a toad or even perform a cruciatus curse on just a couple of ever deserving tools, it’d be a lot cooler.
I think my clumsiness is perhaps due to an inner ear infection. The Navy doctors obviously missed this. The examiners at Hogwarts would have spotted and treated my major malfunction with a flick of their wrist, making me as graceful as a Veela. Harry Potter, I’m gonna miss you so much it hurts. Almost as much as my scraped palms and bruised tailbone.
“REPARO!”
Nope. Still hurts…
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
THE BOAT SCHOOL
I graduated from the Naval Academy with Nine Hundred and ’01 of my rock star classmates ten years ago today. Growing up I never wanted to be in the military. But at the insistence of my eldest uncle, the lone Jarhead in my family, I visited Annapolis on my college tour just to shut him up. Then it was all over for me.
I fell in love. The deepest, purest, most unconditional love – with the Naval Academy. Annapolis is among the most amazing cities in the country. And the Yard is deceivingly beautiful. The Academy, steeped in tradition, honor and camaraderie, is physically, mentally and emotionally challenging. Ridiculously hard to get into. Free. And (at the time) 87% male. During my visit, there were ruggedly good-looking men everywhere. Men playing lacrosse. Men running around The Yard. Men in uniforms that showcased their broad shoulders, washboard abs and perfectly shaped gluteus maximuses. Smart, ambitious men who would grow up to be generals, senators, astronauts… and investment bankers. This may come as a surprise, but the 87:13 ratio did factor into my decision making process.
I came home from my college tour singularly focused. I was going to get into the Naval Academy and I wouldn’t let anything stand in my way. To remind myself of this, I took a permanent marker and wrote U S N A in large print on my bedroom wall. Yes, I have been bat-shit crazy my entire life.
4 Years by the Bay
You will never believe or begin to fathom the atrocities that a Plebe endures. So I will just say that it’s worse than prison. It’s worse than tasting donkey sweat every day for the rest of your life. It’s worse than getting bit by a monkey, catching the plague and bleeding out of your eyes until the moment of your ill-timed death. To summarize in terms John Paul Jones would use, in a word being a plebe is horrible, unfathomable and inhumane.
After you’ve been a plebe, everything else seems easy. But the truth is, I was always a bad midshipman. I either laughed or cried whenever I was yelled at; neither response was tolerated. I broke every rule. I was a horrible runner. I was goofy, a dreamer, stubborn and worst of all, liberal. I stood out in every possible way. Despite my personal hardships, I knew every midshipman was suffering with me. There were days of tiny victories: spontaneous pep rallies in T-Court, splashdowns on 6-4, Chili con carne and Cannonballs with hard sauce for noon meal.
Shared pain unites every Naval Academy graduate. But it was so much more than that. We learned how to be selfless on the most basic human level, knowing that in time some of us would give the ultimate sacrifice for our country. We shared bonds of patriotism that were infectious: America. Fuck yeah! And we leaned on each other to survive.
Apple Juice. Orange Juice. Assorted Cereal. Fresh Fruit.
Ten years. It goes so quickly. I’m gearing up for my reunion in September where I, along with 4 of my lucky classmates, will become Flip Cup Champions. Yes, it’s true that I have no idea what Flip Cup is, but if you know me, you know that will not stop me from winning. Just sayin.
Really, I am excited to be around people who get it. My classmates know what if feels like to be in the middle of a deep sleep and woken by the sound of a clanking metal trashcan in front of your door. It feels like Armageddon. They know the pure joy of a 1MC announcement cancelling drill due to rain. It feels like the greatest moment of your life. And they know what it feels like to throw their covers in the air in front of the President of the United States and become commissioned officers. It feels… most favorable.
Here’s to you, mighty class of Aught One. We started together. We finished together.
I fell in love. The deepest, purest, most unconditional love – with the Naval Academy. Annapolis is among the most amazing cities in the country. And the Yard is deceivingly beautiful. The Academy, steeped in tradition, honor and camaraderie, is physically, mentally and emotionally challenging. Ridiculously hard to get into. Free. And (at the time) 87% male. During my visit, there were ruggedly good-looking men everywhere. Men playing lacrosse. Men running around The Yard. Men in uniforms that showcased their broad shoulders, washboard abs and perfectly shaped gluteus maximuses. Smart, ambitious men who would grow up to be generals, senators, astronauts… and investment bankers. This may come as a surprise, but the 87:13 ratio did factor into my decision making process.
I came home from my college tour singularly focused. I was going to get into the Naval Academy and I wouldn’t let anything stand in my way. To remind myself of this, I took a permanent marker and wrote U S N A in large print on my bedroom wall. Yes, I have been bat-shit crazy my entire life.
4 Years by the Bay
You will never believe or begin to fathom the atrocities that a Plebe endures. So I will just say that it’s worse than prison. It’s worse than tasting donkey sweat every day for the rest of your life. It’s worse than getting bit by a monkey, catching the plague and bleeding out of your eyes until the moment of your ill-timed death. To summarize in terms John Paul Jones would use, in a word being a plebe is horrible, unfathomable and inhumane.
After you’ve been a plebe, everything else seems easy. But the truth is, I was always a bad midshipman. I either laughed or cried whenever I was yelled at; neither response was tolerated. I broke every rule. I was a horrible runner. I was goofy, a dreamer, stubborn and worst of all, liberal. I stood out in every possible way. Despite my personal hardships, I knew every midshipman was suffering with me. There were days of tiny victories: spontaneous pep rallies in T-Court, splashdowns on 6-4, Chili con carne and Cannonballs with hard sauce for noon meal.
Shared pain unites every Naval Academy graduate. But it was so much more than that. We learned how to be selfless on the most basic human level, knowing that in time some of us would give the ultimate sacrifice for our country. We shared bonds of patriotism that were infectious: America. Fuck yeah! And we leaned on each other to survive.
Apple Juice. Orange Juice. Assorted Cereal. Fresh Fruit.
Ten years. It goes so quickly. I’m gearing up for my reunion in September where I, along with 4 of my lucky classmates, will become Flip Cup Champions. Yes, it’s true that I have no idea what Flip Cup is, but if you know me, you know that will not stop me from winning. Just sayin.
Really, I am excited to be around people who get it. My classmates know what if feels like to be in the middle of a deep sleep and woken by the sound of a clanking metal trashcan in front of your door. It feels like Armageddon. They know the pure joy of a 1MC announcement cancelling drill due to rain. It feels like the greatest moment of your life. And they know what it feels like to throw their covers in the air in front of the President of the United States and become commissioned officers. It feels… most favorable.
Here’s to you, mighty class of Aught One. We started together. We finished together.
Friday, May 20, 2011
IT'S LIKE COCAINE... FOR POOR PEOPLE
In the past, my idea of carb loading was adding extra syrup and butter to my waffles. And maybe some whipped cream. I can’t say that I’ve been particularly discerning about the food I eat, though I have recently turned over a new leaf (more on that in a later blog). But there are two things I am a snob about (as if this makes up for eating ice cream by the pint). I don’t eat fast food. And I don’t consume caffeine. I don’t drink coffee in the morning and I think soda is 50% of what is wrong with America.
I went to an early dinner with a friend last night. She is my trainer and also one of the healthiest people I know. So when she ordered a coke it immediately became the greatest idea in the world. I felt a pang of guilt ordering the forbidden fruit. But it felt like a naughty treat and it made every sip taste so much better.
My coke was a bottomless glass. Honestly, what can possibly be better than free refills? I sipped through my straw like a lost man who stumbled out of the desert into a fresh spring. The crisp sweet carbonation rolled onto my tongue and soothed all my senses. Lord, is this what heaven tastes like?
Later that evening I went to the gym and had my best workout since my Half Ironman in NOLA. I was pushing myself and my body was listening. For the first time in a month I felt like a genuine badass. Two and a half hours of pure awesomeness.
I hadn’t made the connection yet.
I got home, did some laundry and jumped in the shower. This is usually when I start to wind down. But I felt like I could still go out and run five miles. I looked at my hands and they were shaking. It was 11:30 at night so scrubbing my bathroom with military precision seemed like the right thing to do.
I have a beautiful shower. It is tiled with a glass door. I am a clean person, but I hate cleaning my shower. Not last night… I felt euphoria. Cleaning! Lord, is this what heaven feels like?
45 minutes of scrubbing later, my bathroom was ready to pass any white or black gloved inspection. But the rest of my house was already clean and I was still on fire. I went down to my basement to change out the laundry and started sprinting in place like “She’s a Maniac,” from Flashdance. It occurred to me that this is not what heaven feels like, but perhaps instead, cocaine. Bobby, Whitney, I get it. I’m not mad at you.
I want to say that I crashed and had a great deep sleep. But I turned on Ocean’s 11 and set my sleep timer. I followed along to every word and heard the TV click off 30 minutes later. My thoughts still raced. It’s not supposed to happen like that. The little sleep I was able to get turned me into an unsuccessful bank robber in cahoots with Matt Damon and George Clooney (not all together that bad). But I woke this morning with a headache, my body no doubt craving its new elixir. The idea of running two miles, let alone five seemed like a horribly unnatural idea. And Bobby and Whitney seemed once again a tragic prequel to The Legend of Charlie Sheen. *Losing.*
So what I know is that last night was amazing. But to be able to replicate that feeling will require me to completely abstain from caffeine for months so that my body will continue to react like crack to this wonderful over-the-counter drug. This just confirms what I’ve known all along. I am destined to be a superstar. And I will be much better at my recreational caffeine use because I am in control of my own body. And I can quit any time.
I went to an early dinner with a friend last night. She is my trainer and also one of the healthiest people I know. So when she ordered a coke it immediately became the greatest idea in the world. I felt a pang of guilt ordering the forbidden fruit. But it felt like a naughty treat and it made every sip taste so much better.
My coke was a bottomless glass. Honestly, what can possibly be better than free refills? I sipped through my straw like a lost man who stumbled out of the desert into a fresh spring. The crisp sweet carbonation rolled onto my tongue and soothed all my senses. Lord, is this what heaven tastes like?
Later that evening I went to the gym and had my best workout since my Half Ironman in NOLA. I was pushing myself and my body was listening. For the first time in a month I felt like a genuine badass. Two and a half hours of pure awesomeness.
I hadn’t made the connection yet.
I got home, did some laundry and jumped in the shower. This is usually when I start to wind down. But I felt like I could still go out and run five miles. I looked at my hands and they were shaking. It was 11:30 at night so scrubbing my bathroom with military precision seemed like the right thing to do.
I have a beautiful shower. It is tiled with a glass door. I am a clean person, but I hate cleaning my shower. Not last night… I felt euphoria. Cleaning! Lord, is this what heaven feels like?
45 minutes of scrubbing later, my bathroom was ready to pass any white or black gloved inspection. But the rest of my house was already clean and I was still on fire. I went down to my basement to change out the laundry and started sprinting in place like “She’s a Maniac,” from Flashdance. It occurred to me that this is not what heaven feels like, but perhaps instead, cocaine. Bobby, Whitney, I get it. I’m not mad at you.
I want to say that I crashed and had a great deep sleep. But I turned on Ocean’s 11 and set my sleep timer. I followed along to every word and heard the TV click off 30 minutes later. My thoughts still raced. It’s not supposed to happen like that. The little sleep I was able to get turned me into an unsuccessful bank robber in cahoots with Matt Damon and George Clooney (not all together that bad). But I woke this morning with a headache, my body no doubt craving its new elixir. The idea of running two miles, let alone five seemed like a horribly unnatural idea. And Bobby and Whitney seemed once again a tragic prequel to The Legend of Charlie Sheen. *Losing.*
So what I know is that last night was amazing. But to be able to replicate that feeling will require me to completely abstain from caffeine for months so that my body will continue to react like crack to this wonderful over-the-counter drug. This just confirms what I’ve known all along. I am destined to be a superstar. And I will be much better at my recreational caffeine use because I am in control of my own body. And I can quit any time.
Friday, April 29, 2011
I WOULD BE MUCH BETTER AT DATING IF I WERE A MAN
My best friend got engaged last weekend. When she called me with the news, I was with a mutual friend. We shrieked into the phone like little girls waiting outside a Justin Bieber concert. Bar after bar we toasted our friend’s fortune, her gorgeous 3 kt. emerald cut diamond and the JD/MBA/Investment banker she reeled in using tips from Kanye’s workout plan.
This was not a decision either of them made lightly. The couple dated on and off for four years. While her beau is charming, fun and successful (albeit a little short for my taste), I have to admit that I was slightly surprised to hear the pure bliss and excitement she felt over her impending nuptials. I mean, my thought in her situation would have been, ‘Eh, four years. Might as well.’ But she talked about her fiancé with the fervor of an amazing first date or a sultry first kiss. I just don’t know that a four-year relationship and lifetime of monogamous sex will elicit as much genuine joy for me as it has for my dear friend.
I am an extremely passionate and emotional person. I experience life with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I have the greatest day of my life about once a week because I get ridiculously excited by minutia. Fortunately, I don’t experience lows nearly as often, but when they happen, I feel it burn with the flame of a thousand suns. Yes, I know that was horribly cheesy. But I need for you to understand that it is real.
I have the same intensity with my relationships which make for incredible first dates, but which has also contributed to ending every relationship I’ve ever been in.
I recently had a first date that was perfect – beginning to end. Great food, flowing wine, lips that made me want to jump across the table. We talked and laughed for hours until we actually closed the restaurant down. I got up to use the restroom. Knowing he would stare at me until I was out of view, I walked with a bounce in my 4-inch-heeled-step and a subtle switch in my tight-fitted-jeaned-hips. With all of my effort to be sexy and graceful (and for me this is never a good idea), my heel slipped and my foot flew straight into the air. I landed flat on my back. Not on my well cushioned bottom. On. My. Back. I was completely sprawled out on the floor in front of a man that I was so pleasantly smitten with. Still, it was one of the best dates either of us had ever been on (which, consequently, did end at my front door, thank you). Though we keep in moderate contact, there was not enough there to get us past the initial spark.
Conversely, I tried stand-up paddle boarding on let’s say a 10th date with Chaz Michael Michaels.* If on any day I tweeter between a hot dog and three cardio sessions and a celery stick, I landed on the hot dog side that day. Tyrone would have been ‘bout it – ‘bout it, but I imagined CMM was less so. By the way, I adamantly believe that you should be dating for a minimum of six months and have met each other’s parents, and maybe picked out a china pattern before you go on a date in a bikini. Even so, the sentiment was quite lovely. He knew I liked to be active and try new things, so this seemed like the perfect fit.
We met two of his friends (male and female) for our excursion by the lake. They both had fantastic athletic builds. But the other female in the group was wearing board shorts and a tank top that she had refused to take off. I, on the other hand, wore a floor length sarong that I could not paddle in. I begged her to wear her bikini, and honestly had visions of wrestling her to the ground and forcibly removing her shorts. But I don’t think there was any possible scenario where that would have ended well for me. Instead, I undressed and felt more self-conscious than anyone had ever felt in the history of self-consciousness. I mean, I am a triathlete, after all. And I have a self-proclaimed triathlete body, right? Well, a couple of pounds either way makes a huge difference. It was as if I could feel all three pair of eyes judging me, picking apart my imperfections and looking at my gargantuan misshapen body. My shoulders slumped inwards. My head fell downwards. And at that moment, I became instantly less attractive to myself and everyone else on that lake.
So I paddled, focused on my insecurities, irrationally afraid of falling in the water. Then my bikini top came undone. Like, first it was holding my junks together and then it was accessorizing my waistline. You may be wondering how things like this repeatedly happen to me. The answer is, I don’t know. I felt pure terror as I tried to figure out how I was going to re-tie my suit with an oversized paddle in my hand and remain upright -bonus points for not drawing attention to myself. To this day, I am hoping the reason I never heard about it was because they didn’t notice, and not because they were being kind to the whale on the paddleboard.
It is really easy for me to be super cool and confident in beginnings – no matter the situation. I have no stake, so it’s just not a big deal. But I either get bored (because a man is too eager, available or nice) or become so entranced (when it turns out that the man is neither too eager, available nor nice) that I psyche myself out. It is a game. It’s challenging, exciting, calculating and strategic. Despite my bouts of mischief, mayhem and slight insanity, I am still a first round draft pick. Of course, my issue is that while I know the rules in theory, it takes a while to get used to them in practice. Inevitably, I end up catching the ball just as I realize the game is soccer.
I do picture my future with a family – including a husband. But marriage actually terrifies me. It didn’t work out for me the first time and I don’t know if it was because it wasn’t the right person or because I’m just not cut out for that kind of commitment: the kind that comes after the butterflies; after the sultry kisses; after the quirks and insecurities are revealed. But seeing my best friend happier than she has ever been makes me want to believe that it is possible for me too. Maybe I could learn to kick a soccer ball, throw a football and hit a baseball in proper form. Or perhaps, like a man, I will figure out a way to change the game and play on my own turf. | Swim | Bike | Run |. Either way, I’m sure a 3 kt. emerald cut diamond would be a huge motivator for me to master any game I play. Matching earrings never hurt anyone either.
*http://lonelli.blogspot.com/2010/07/red-beans-and-rice-didnt-miss-her.html
This was not a decision either of them made lightly. The couple dated on and off for four years. While her beau is charming, fun and successful (albeit a little short for my taste), I have to admit that I was slightly surprised to hear the pure bliss and excitement she felt over her impending nuptials. I mean, my thought in her situation would have been, ‘Eh, four years. Might as well.’ But she talked about her fiancé with the fervor of an amazing first date or a sultry first kiss. I just don’t know that a four-year relationship and lifetime of monogamous sex will elicit as much genuine joy for me as it has for my dear friend.
I am an extremely passionate and emotional person. I experience life with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I have the greatest day of my life about once a week because I get ridiculously excited by minutia. Fortunately, I don’t experience lows nearly as often, but when they happen, I feel it burn with the flame of a thousand suns. Yes, I know that was horribly cheesy. But I need for you to understand that it is real.
I have the same intensity with my relationships which make for incredible first dates, but which has also contributed to ending every relationship I’ve ever been in.
I recently had a first date that was perfect – beginning to end. Great food, flowing wine, lips that made me want to jump across the table. We talked and laughed for hours until we actually closed the restaurant down. I got up to use the restroom. Knowing he would stare at me until I was out of view, I walked with a bounce in my 4-inch-heeled-step and a subtle switch in my tight-fitted-jeaned-hips. With all of my effort to be sexy and graceful (and for me this is never a good idea), my heel slipped and my foot flew straight into the air. I landed flat on my back. Not on my well cushioned bottom. On. My. Back. I was completely sprawled out on the floor in front of a man that I was so pleasantly smitten with. Still, it was one of the best dates either of us had ever been on (which, consequently, did end at my front door, thank you). Though we keep in moderate contact, there was not enough there to get us past the initial spark.
Conversely, I tried stand-up paddle boarding on let’s say a 10th date with Chaz Michael Michaels.* If on any day I tweeter between a hot dog and three cardio sessions and a celery stick, I landed on the hot dog side that day. Tyrone would have been ‘bout it – ‘bout it, but I imagined CMM was less so. By the way, I adamantly believe that you should be dating for a minimum of six months and have met each other’s parents, and maybe picked out a china pattern before you go on a date in a bikini. Even so, the sentiment was quite lovely. He knew I liked to be active and try new things, so this seemed like the perfect fit.
We met two of his friends (male and female) for our excursion by the lake. They both had fantastic athletic builds. But the other female in the group was wearing board shorts and a tank top that she had refused to take off. I, on the other hand, wore a floor length sarong that I could not paddle in. I begged her to wear her bikini, and honestly had visions of wrestling her to the ground and forcibly removing her shorts. But I don’t think there was any possible scenario where that would have ended well for me. Instead, I undressed and felt more self-conscious than anyone had ever felt in the history of self-consciousness. I mean, I am a triathlete, after all. And I have a self-proclaimed triathlete body, right? Well, a couple of pounds either way makes a huge difference. It was as if I could feel all three pair of eyes judging me, picking apart my imperfections and looking at my gargantuan misshapen body. My shoulders slumped inwards. My head fell downwards. And at that moment, I became instantly less attractive to myself and everyone else on that lake.
So I paddled, focused on my insecurities, irrationally afraid of falling in the water. Then my bikini top came undone. Like, first it was holding my junks together and then it was accessorizing my waistline. You may be wondering how things like this repeatedly happen to me. The answer is, I don’t know. I felt pure terror as I tried to figure out how I was going to re-tie my suit with an oversized paddle in my hand and remain upright -bonus points for not drawing attention to myself. To this day, I am hoping the reason I never heard about it was because they didn’t notice, and not because they were being kind to the whale on the paddleboard.
It is really easy for me to be super cool and confident in beginnings – no matter the situation. I have no stake, so it’s just not a big deal. But I either get bored (because a man is too eager, available or nice) or become so entranced (when it turns out that the man is neither too eager, available nor nice) that I psyche myself out. It is a game. It’s challenging, exciting, calculating and strategic. Despite my bouts of mischief, mayhem and slight insanity, I am still a first round draft pick. Of course, my issue is that while I know the rules in theory, it takes a while to get used to them in practice. Inevitably, I end up catching the ball just as I realize the game is soccer.
I do picture my future with a family – including a husband. But marriage actually terrifies me. It didn’t work out for me the first time and I don’t know if it was because it wasn’t the right person or because I’m just not cut out for that kind of commitment: the kind that comes after the butterflies; after the sultry kisses; after the quirks and insecurities are revealed. But seeing my best friend happier than she has ever been makes me want to believe that it is possible for me too. Maybe I could learn to kick a soccer ball, throw a football and hit a baseball in proper form. Or perhaps, like a man, I will figure out a way to change the game and play on my own turf. | Swim | Bike | Run |. Either way, I’m sure a 3 kt. emerald cut diamond would be a huge motivator for me to master any game I play. Matching earrings never hurt anyone either.
*http://lonelli.blogspot.com/2010/07/red-beans-and-rice-didnt-miss-her.html
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
OH THE HORROR
If you have a weak stomach, I’m going to suggest you stop reading. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m going to tell you about the time I almost pooped my pants. There’s just not a happy ending here.
There are many benefits to exercise. One of which is maintaining a slammin’ body (just sayin’) while eating unbelievable amounts of food. Also, endorphins create a serious feeling of euphoria that is completely underrated. If people understood how amazing it felt to be in shape and have an incredible workout, along with the amazing stress coping capabilities, everyone would do it… all the time. But I have to admit that being an athlete can also be a completely humiliating, pride swallowing endeavor.
My little brother’s socially retarded friend hijacked my Facebook account last month. He posted “I pooped my pant today.” When my brother told me about this, he sounded so worried. He thought I was going to be really mad at the little mongoloid who couldn’t even use proper grammar to prank me. I laughed for three days straight. I mean, I hadn’t pooped my pants in years, if not decades. I’ve prided myself on that accomplishment for some time now. I might have reset the clock today.
I gave up dessert for Lent. One would assume that as a triathlete I don’t eat too much sugar. But I tend to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup. I’ve been supplementing my sugar fix with fresh homemade smoothies. It’s the only way I like fruit. My smoothies are as close to perfection as you can get. Yesterday, craving sweet gooey deliciousness that could have landed me in the fiery pits of hell, I doubled my smoothie intake rather than risk letting down J.C. Today I paid for it. San Pedro, please remember this on the day of my judgment.
Spring sprang in Grosse Pointe today. After months of long runs either inside on a treadmill or outside in snow, ice, freezing puddles, sideways rain and even hail – I got to run in 54 degree sunny weather. The promise of spring was so invigorating; I was running like a rock star. My body was doing everything right and I set a 9:00 mile pace going for ten miles. If you don’t think that pace is super fast I can guarantee no one likes you. Not even a little bit. It was the fastest pace I’d set for myself at that distance, but I’ve gotten pretty good at gauging how hard I can push my body and I knew I could do it. Well, until my body told me I couldn’t.
Three miles into the run I felt it, but at that point I was too committed. There was no turning back. I figured the sensation would go away. I run on Lakeshore Drive, a street lined with mansions. I had never thought about trespassing until today. I find it completely ridiculous that there is not one porta-potty or one public restroom on the highest traffic running path in Grosse Pointe. I blame the millionaires. I wanted to break into their house and show them exactly how I felt about it. Five miles in, I would have been happy leaving a surprise on their doorstep. I felt the cold sweat wash over my body. Six miles in, I called the cavalry. Doubling over in pain I howled a shriek of terror, fearing that the worst possible outcome had happened. There was no way I was going to make it home. My sister, laughing the entire way, came to get me.
Despite the short detour, I did finish all ten miles (though not at my rock star pace) and I can still honestly say I haven’t pooped my pant or pants in years. Decades even. I almost never run with my phone, but today was still cool enough to run with a vest. Next month that won’t be an option. I got lucky today and so did everyone else in Grosse Pointe. Lakeshore Drive residents, you’ve been warned. Just. Sayin.
There are many benefits to exercise. One of which is maintaining a slammin’ body (just sayin’) while eating unbelievable amounts of food. Also, endorphins create a serious feeling of euphoria that is completely underrated. If people understood how amazing it felt to be in shape and have an incredible workout, along with the amazing stress coping capabilities, everyone would do it… all the time. But I have to admit that being an athlete can also be a completely humiliating, pride swallowing endeavor.
My little brother’s socially retarded friend hijacked my Facebook account last month. He posted “I pooped my pant today.” When my brother told me about this, he sounded so worried. He thought I was going to be really mad at the little mongoloid who couldn’t even use proper grammar to prank me. I laughed for three days straight. I mean, I hadn’t pooped my pants in years, if not decades. I’ve prided myself on that accomplishment for some time now. I might have reset the clock today.
I gave up dessert for Lent. One would assume that as a triathlete I don’t eat too much sugar. But I tend to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup. I’ve been supplementing my sugar fix with fresh homemade smoothies. It’s the only way I like fruit. My smoothies are as close to perfection as you can get. Yesterday, craving sweet gooey deliciousness that could have landed me in the fiery pits of hell, I doubled my smoothie intake rather than risk letting down J.C. Today I paid for it. San Pedro, please remember this on the day of my judgment.
Spring sprang in Grosse Pointe today. After months of long runs either inside on a treadmill or outside in snow, ice, freezing puddles, sideways rain and even hail – I got to run in 54 degree sunny weather. The promise of spring was so invigorating; I was running like a rock star. My body was doing everything right and I set a 9:00 mile pace going for ten miles. If you don’t think that pace is super fast I can guarantee no one likes you. Not even a little bit. It was the fastest pace I’d set for myself at that distance, but I’ve gotten pretty good at gauging how hard I can push my body and I knew I could do it. Well, until my body told me I couldn’t.
Three miles into the run I felt it, but at that point I was too committed. There was no turning back. I figured the sensation would go away. I run on Lakeshore Drive, a street lined with mansions. I had never thought about trespassing until today. I find it completely ridiculous that there is not one porta-potty or one public restroom on the highest traffic running path in Grosse Pointe. I blame the millionaires. I wanted to break into their house and show them exactly how I felt about it. Five miles in, I would have been happy leaving a surprise on their doorstep. I felt the cold sweat wash over my body. Six miles in, I called the cavalry. Doubling over in pain I howled a shriek of terror, fearing that the worst possible outcome had happened. There was no way I was going to make it home. My sister, laughing the entire way, came to get me.
Despite the short detour, I did finish all ten miles (though not at my rock star pace) and I can still honestly say I haven’t pooped my pant or pants in years. Decades even. I almost never run with my phone, but today was still cool enough to run with a vest. Next month that won’t be an option. I got lucky today and so did everyone else in Grosse Pointe. Lakeshore Drive residents, you’ve been warned. Just. Sayin.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
PANAMA. PANAMA-HA.
The title really only makes sense if you sing it to Van Halen’s cover. Great song. But I think I like it because by birth, I am Panamanian. From Panama. Panama-ha. And while, yes, I was born in that country and was given the name “Gonzalez,” (the “Smith” of the little brown people who reside oh-so-South-of-the-Border) I am as American as they come. I immigrated to the States as a toddler. Despite my frequent travel abroad, my culture is American and my language is English. However, I do remain more than proficient in Pig Latin.
Last week I flew back to Panama with my family for a funeral. The trip was very stressful but at times inappropriately funny. Let me ‘splain…
It started on the flight to Panama. The flight attendant asked if there was a “Gonzalez” on board and half the plane raised their hands. It got me thinking, ‘Could we all fit in the back of a pick-up truck and if so, why did I leave my Sombrero at home?’ I think the funniest part about the plane ride was my people’s complete disregard for authority. As we were taxiing on the runway the members of the Gonzalez dynasty got up to move about the cabin. During the last ten seconds of the descent, as the plane was literally landing, someone grabbed his bags from the overhead bin and walked towards the exit. Hermano, Border Control only chases you on the way into the US. T.I.P. This is Panama. You’re all set. You can take your seat.
Stepping off the plane was an endless supply of candidates for TLC’s “What Not to Wear.” In Panama, mid-drifts are appropriate at any age. Grandmothers dress like hookers. The attendant at the rental car kiosk wore an evening gown. If you ever want to feel better about your life there are two places you should visit immediately: the DMV in Detroit (any time), or the Tocumen International Airport (PTY) after 9pm. Good times.
Driving in the middle of the night in Panama is like driving on Martin Luther King Blvd in Compton. Not a good idea, but if you must, keep the doors locked and don’t stop for anything. We made it to our hotel, but not before seeing what should have been 100 kilometers of earth’s most spectacular scenery littered with billboards of women with large phallic symbols in and around their mouths. How does one sell soda in Central America? Easy. Have a woman straddle an over-sized bottle of exploding Coca-Cola. If that doesn’t inspire thirst…
The next morning, true to my training regimen, I went to the hotel’s gym and rode a stationary bike. At 7 AM, the temperature had already risen to a humid 80 degrees. In a room with no air conditioning and only the faint breeze from my bike wheel, I left a puddle of sweat deep enough to swim in around my bicycle. Looking for disinfectant and a rag, I realized there were none of either. That meant that someone else had left the same puddle of sweat on the same bike that I had just ridden. Not wanting to throw up in my mouth, I ran outside, grateful for the Hepatitis B shot I got before going to Africa earlier this year. Dehydrated, I had a brief image of exploding Coca-Cola bottles and decided a hot shower with a Brillo pad and Ajax was more in line with my immediate needs.
I spent the morning poolside, reading Tom Clancy’s latest novel, wondering why I never realized my dream of becoming an international spy. I quickly accredited it to the same reason that Olympic glory eluded me in Vancouver last year. Simply put, my parents failed me.
I wanted to try out my super-spy skills by blending in with the natives. Though these natives happened to be in the land of my birth and therefore looked just like me, Operation PANAMANIAN was a complete disaster. I went to the hotel’s restaurant with my little brother. As we read the menu it was as if both of our IQs dropped by increments of 10 every second. They were in Spanish. Solomente en Espanol. Waitress, you speak no English? Muy bien. I’ll just speak very slowly and very loudly. That should make you understand my order. No? As a last ditch effort, I decided to play charades and mime what I wanted to eat. The look on her face told me that acting out the word “bratwurst” might have been less than appropriate. Come off it, sister. I’ve seen your billboards. The gig is up. Ultimately, the chef showed us some options and we pointed to what we wanted, at which time the wait staff got a nice little chuckle at our expense. Yeah?! Ow’s-hay our-ya ig-pay atin-lay?!
Though my undercover efforts needed serious work, the real anxiety came the day of the funeral. My Na, the woman who in every way that counted was a grandmother to me, passed away. If ever there was a saint in this world, it was she. Na embodied what it meant to love and give and sacrifice… and in such a funny way. She and my mother discussed her funeral arrangements before she passed, and she said, “Nobody’s going to fight. Everybody’s going to be too sad that I’m gone.” I still smile when I think about that.
Na’s funeral was a testament to her life. It was packed with friends, family, church members… and me. Sitting in the second row, directly behind my mother and Na’s grieving widower, I dressed the part: hair in a tight bun, Tiffany pearls, fitted black dress and sling-back peep-toe heels. But that was the extent of my role-play. An elderly woman in the parish led a hymn. It sounded like someone grabbed a cat by its tail and swung it in circles, occasionally banging it against the wall. I laughed out loud. Not too many ways you can out-do that one. But I certainly tried.
During the homily, the priest was going back and forth between Spanish and English. The lull of the priest’s words, the smell of the warm breeze, the somberness of the occasion… it took its toll. My head began to bob up and down, completely out of my control until I woke and found a spool of saliva stretching from my mouth to my lap. This, of course, completed the look of understated elegance I was going for with my tight bun and Tiffany pearls. But true to Na’s word, everyone was too sad to fight. I didn’t get one sideways glance from the priest or my mother’s evil eye of caution that she has perfected these many years. My ill-timed laughter and drool were left unmentioned, if not unnoticed.
I love adventure and I love to travel. But this was one trip I was happy to see end. Not just for the comfort of the freezing cold bike lab at Fraser, or endless supply of disinfectant wipes at my gym; but to escape a reality that I don’t want to think about. If not for my mother’s incredible bravery, inspired in no small part by Na’s help, I would not have grown up in the greatest country in the world. It could have been me on those billboards with a banana shoved halfway down my mouth or worse, wearing an evening gown to work at the airport. But most of all, I wanted the trip to end so I could stop remembering my reason for being there. I wanted to escape the reality of knowing that I will never hear Na’s voice again or take in her scent, or taste her incredible cooking. I have no doubt that she is in heaven, without so much as a layover in purgatory. But from time to time I will pretend that she is healthy and vibrant enjoying sunny 90-degree days in our homeland, Panama. Panama-ha.
Last week I flew back to Panama with my family for a funeral. The trip was very stressful but at times inappropriately funny. Let me ‘splain…
It started on the flight to Panama. The flight attendant asked if there was a “Gonzalez” on board and half the plane raised their hands. It got me thinking, ‘Could we all fit in the back of a pick-up truck and if so, why did I leave my Sombrero at home?’ I think the funniest part about the plane ride was my people’s complete disregard for authority. As we were taxiing on the runway the members of the Gonzalez dynasty got up to move about the cabin. During the last ten seconds of the descent, as the plane was literally landing, someone grabbed his bags from the overhead bin and walked towards the exit. Hermano, Border Control only chases you on the way into the US. T.I.P. This is Panama. You’re all set. You can take your seat.
Stepping off the plane was an endless supply of candidates for TLC’s “What Not to Wear.” In Panama, mid-drifts are appropriate at any age. Grandmothers dress like hookers. The attendant at the rental car kiosk wore an evening gown. If you ever want to feel better about your life there are two places you should visit immediately: the DMV in Detroit (any time), or the Tocumen International Airport (PTY) after 9pm. Good times.
Driving in the middle of the night in Panama is like driving on Martin Luther King Blvd in Compton. Not a good idea, but if you must, keep the doors locked and don’t stop for anything. We made it to our hotel, but not before seeing what should have been 100 kilometers of earth’s most spectacular scenery littered with billboards of women with large phallic symbols in and around their mouths. How does one sell soda in Central America? Easy. Have a woman straddle an over-sized bottle of exploding Coca-Cola. If that doesn’t inspire thirst…
The next morning, true to my training regimen, I went to the hotel’s gym and rode a stationary bike. At 7 AM, the temperature had already risen to a humid 80 degrees. In a room with no air conditioning and only the faint breeze from my bike wheel, I left a puddle of sweat deep enough to swim in around my bicycle. Looking for disinfectant and a rag, I realized there were none of either. That meant that someone else had left the same puddle of sweat on the same bike that I had just ridden. Not wanting to throw up in my mouth, I ran outside, grateful for the Hepatitis B shot I got before going to Africa earlier this year. Dehydrated, I had a brief image of exploding Coca-Cola bottles and decided a hot shower with a Brillo pad and Ajax was more in line with my immediate needs.
I spent the morning poolside, reading Tom Clancy’s latest novel, wondering why I never realized my dream of becoming an international spy. I quickly accredited it to the same reason that Olympic glory eluded me in Vancouver last year. Simply put, my parents failed me.
I wanted to try out my super-spy skills by blending in with the natives. Though these natives happened to be in the land of my birth and therefore looked just like me, Operation PANAMANIAN was a complete disaster. I went to the hotel’s restaurant with my little brother. As we read the menu it was as if both of our IQs dropped by increments of 10 every second. They were in Spanish. Solomente en Espanol. Waitress, you speak no English? Muy bien. I’ll just speak very slowly and very loudly. That should make you understand my order. No? As a last ditch effort, I decided to play charades and mime what I wanted to eat. The look on her face told me that acting out the word “bratwurst” might have been less than appropriate. Come off it, sister. I’ve seen your billboards. The gig is up. Ultimately, the chef showed us some options and we pointed to what we wanted, at which time the wait staff got a nice little chuckle at our expense. Yeah?! Ow’s-hay our-ya ig-pay atin-lay?!
Though my undercover efforts needed serious work, the real anxiety came the day of the funeral. My Na, the woman who in every way that counted was a grandmother to me, passed away. If ever there was a saint in this world, it was she. Na embodied what it meant to love and give and sacrifice… and in such a funny way. She and my mother discussed her funeral arrangements before she passed, and she said, “Nobody’s going to fight. Everybody’s going to be too sad that I’m gone.” I still smile when I think about that.
Na’s funeral was a testament to her life. It was packed with friends, family, church members… and me. Sitting in the second row, directly behind my mother and Na’s grieving widower, I dressed the part: hair in a tight bun, Tiffany pearls, fitted black dress and sling-back peep-toe heels. But that was the extent of my role-play. An elderly woman in the parish led a hymn. It sounded like someone grabbed a cat by its tail and swung it in circles, occasionally banging it against the wall. I laughed out loud. Not too many ways you can out-do that one. But I certainly tried.
During the homily, the priest was going back and forth between Spanish and English. The lull of the priest’s words, the smell of the warm breeze, the somberness of the occasion… it took its toll. My head began to bob up and down, completely out of my control until I woke and found a spool of saliva stretching from my mouth to my lap. This, of course, completed the look of understated elegance I was going for with my tight bun and Tiffany pearls. But true to Na’s word, everyone was too sad to fight. I didn’t get one sideways glance from the priest or my mother’s evil eye of caution that she has perfected these many years. My ill-timed laughter and drool were left unmentioned, if not unnoticed.
I love adventure and I love to travel. But this was one trip I was happy to see end. Not just for the comfort of the freezing cold bike lab at Fraser, or endless supply of disinfectant wipes at my gym; but to escape a reality that I don’t want to think about. If not for my mother’s incredible bravery, inspired in no small part by Na’s help, I would not have grown up in the greatest country in the world. It could have been me on those billboards with a banana shoved halfway down my mouth or worse, wearing an evening gown to work at the airport. But most of all, I wanted the trip to end so I could stop remembering my reason for being there. I wanted to escape the reality of knowing that I will never hear Na’s voice again or take in her scent, or taste her incredible cooking. I have no doubt that she is in heaven, without so much as a layover in purgatory. But from time to time I will pretend that she is healthy and vibrant enjoying sunny 90-degree days in our homeland, Panama. Panama-ha.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
THE CRITIC
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
-Theodore Roosevelt
I am my own worst critic. I don’t believe in A’s for effort. That’s not how the real world works. Elementary schools should get rid of this.
I didn’t finish my race today and I am angry, disappointed and humiliated.
My very first triathlon was six months ago. Perhaps Ironman level may have been a bit over-zealous. Yes, I know that most people will never try an Ironman. And yes, I know that I raced in horrible conditions that made even the Ironman veterans and pros struggle. But I am still angry, disappointed and humiliated.
I swam 1.2 miles in a freezing ocean with strong currents and an undertow. I didn’t swim 50 meters before I thought about quitting. I finished with 22 minutes to spare. I thought the worst was over.
I biked 28 miles up a continuous hill that was steeper than anything I had ever trained on. Racing against gusting winds and freezing cold rain, I turned around and fought my way back down the hill, with sharp turns at speeds I can only imagine (my bike computer broke before my race). There was a 4:05 bike cut off. I finished in 4:20. Not even close.
I biked as hard as I could, as fast as I could and didn’t leave anything behind. It was the absolute best I could do. But today, my best wasn’t good enough.
When I made it back to Transition, I was not allowed to participate in the run. This was the most disappointing part. Despite not being able to reach the time limits, I still wanted the opportunity to finish the race.
I am an athlete and by nature very competitive. I had no intention of traveling across the world to “give it my best shot.” I came here for a medal. The fact that I didn’t get one makes me angry. Disappointed. Humiliated.
Of all six seasons of Sex and the City, my favorite episode was the one where Carrie Bradshaw was asked to model in a fashion show. The series’ heroine was the queen of high heels. But in this episode she slipped on the runway and landed on her face. It was humiliating to watch. Heidi Klum stepped over her lifeless body. She was fashion road kill.
Carrie had two choices: slink away back stage and cry, or pick herself up and strut down the runway. Well, it’s Hollywood, so I’ll let you guess the ending. But in reality, this is what heroines do. They pick themselves up. And if nothing else, I am the heroine of my own life.
I started triathlons to be a skinny bitch and to stay in shape. Well, I am a skinny bitch. And despite not being able to complete this race, I am in the best shape of my life. But beyond the physical benefits, since I started competing in triathlons, I really have become a better person. I push myself beyond my limits and for that I am incredibly proud.
The critic in me is angry that I didn’t finish today; disappointed with my failure; and humiliated that everyone knows. But more than all of the negative feelings I have about the race, I am thankful that I didn’t drown in the Indian Ocean. I am beyond ecstatic that while speeding down 28 miles of steep hills with sharp turns, wearing nothing but a sports bra and the daisy-est of Daisy Dukes, that I, the clumsiest of silly girls, did not fall and break a bone or rip off my skin. I am grateful for the experience of racing with the best athletes in the world and the opportunity to do so on a different continent than my own.
I am determined to pick myself up. I am driven to do better. And I am in training. Ironman 70.3 South Africa 2012, I will see you next year. I am back in the arena.
-Theodore Roosevelt
I am my own worst critic. I don’t believe in A’s for effort. That’s not how the real world works. Elementary schools should get rid of this.
I didn’t finish my race today and I am angry, disappointed and humiliated.
My very first triathlon was six months ago. Perhaps Ironman level may have been a bit over-zealous. Yes, I know that most people will never try an Ironman. And yes, I know that I raced in horrible conditions that made even the Ironman veterans and pros struggle. But I am still angry, disappointed and humiliated.
I swam 1.2 miles in a freezing ocean with strong currents and an undertow. I didn’t swim 50 meters before I thought about quitting. I finished with 22 minutes to spare. I thought the worst was over.
I biked 28 miles up a continuous hill that was steeper than anything I had ever trained on. Racing against gusting winds and freezing cold rain, I turned around and fought my way back down the hill, with sharp turns at speeds I can only imagine (my bike computer broke before my race). There was a 4:05 bike cut off. I finished in 4:20. Not even close.
I biked as hard as I could, as fast as I could and didn’t leave anything behind. It was the absolute best I could do. But today, my best wasn’t good enough.
When I made it back to Transition, I was not allowed to participate in the run. This was the most disappointing part. Despite not being able to reach the time limits, I still wanted the opportunity to finish the race.
I am an athlete and by nature very competitive. I had no intention of traveling across the world to “give it my best shot.” I came here for a medal. The fact that I didn’t get one makes me angry. Disappointed. Humiliated.
Of all six seasons of Sex and the City, my favorite episode was the one where Carrie Bradshaw was asked to model in a fashion show. The series’ heroine was the queen of high heels. But in this episode she slipped on the runway and landed on her face. It was humiliating to watch. Heidi Klum stepped over her lifeless body. She was fashion road kill.
Carrie had two choices: slink away back stage and cry, or pick herself up and strut down the runway. Well, it’s Hollywood, so I’ll let you guess the ending. But in reality, this is what heroines do. They pick themselves up. And if nothing else, I am the heroine of my own life.
I started triathlons to be a skinny bitch and to stay in shape. Well, I am a skinny bitch. And despite not being able to complete this race, I am in the best shape of my life. But beyond the physical benefits, since I started competing in triathlons, I really have become a better person. I push myself beyond my limits and for that I am incredibly proud.
The critic in me is angry that I didn’t finish today; disappointed with my failure; and humiliated that everyone knows. But more than all of the negative feelings I have about the race, I am thankful that I didn’t drown in the Indian Ocean. I am beyond ecstatic that while speeding down 28 miles of steep hills with sharp turns, wearing nothing but a sports bra and the daisy-est of Daisy Dukes, that I, the clumsiest of silly girls, did not fall and break a bone or rip off my skin. I am grateful for the experience of racing with the best athletes in the world and the opportunity to do so on a different continent than my own.
I am determined to pick myself up. I am driven to do better. And I am in training. Ironman 70.3 South Africa 2012, I will see you next year. I am back in the arena.
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