Me Not So Horny

December 11, 2010 in Home Life, Personal

My little 2000 Jetta turns 12 in May, and she’s hanging in there. I told myself when I bought her brand new in 1999 that I was going to drive her ’till she dropped, and I plan on sticking to that statement. Over the years there’s been a couple of fender benders, an electrical transmission overhaul (still under warranty), new breaks, new tires, and a horrible situation with mold, but my dear Jetta keeps on running.

The wiper motor died a few weeks ago, which made driving in Chicago weather a bit treacherous.  But a quick trip to the mechanic and a motor cleansing had the wipers good as new.

Now the horn is no longer working. Which is making me a different driver here in Chicago. When I lived in Portland I rarely honked my horn. It would seem rude to honk if someone did something I didn’t like. In Portland I just gripped my steering wheel tighter and then let it go.

That all changed once I started driving in Chicago. Everyone honks here; it’s an aggressive driving situation with the mix of taxi’s slowly cruising to find passengers; and the taxi’s that have their patrons and want to prove they could be in Formula One racing if they really wanted. There’s no patience for the person who gets distracted at the light and doesn’t floor it the minute it turns green. The poor soul looking for a parking spot is deemed an ass-hole for holding up someone else’s forward momentum. And at all times there is a symphony of horns.

I admit, I’ve gotten used to honking my horn in a show of irritation for other drivers. It doesn’t alleviate any of my stress, but it does let the other drivers know I’m frustrated they’re not doing what I want them to do. With a horn that’s gone mute I can no longer blast my frustration; oddly, I find  I’m not as frustrated.

Now when someone is sitting at a light too long after it’s turned green I flash my headlights. I have to admit it seems nicer. Instead of my car horn shouting, “Hey, buddy get your ass moving!” The headlights flash a message saying, “Hey, not sure if you noticed  but the light has changed. I’d like to go.”

The other day a woman intersected traffic to turn left into the lane I was in. She didn’t see me, I slammed on my breaks and my hand instantly went to the horn sending out a signal that only a dog could hear. My breaks worked, she merged into traffic and everyone was fine.  I realized not hearing a horn allowed me to breath easier more quickly.

I’ll take my car in at some point to have the horn looked at, but until then I’m kind of happy not to add my notes in the horn section that is Chicago’s street symphony.

Mistaken Identity

November 30, 2009 in Personal, Ship Life

Twice in one week I was identified as someone that someone else recognized or that I looked exactly like someone from back home; this time home being in Australia. I can’t tell you how many times this happens to me. I have a few theories:

  1. I am adopted and my biological parents have a huge extended family, I have over 30 biological siblings and we have scattered the globe.
  2. I was part of an unnamed government cloning experiment that happened in the 60′s when everyone was doing illicit drugs. The clones have been placed in all parts of the world.
  3. In a past life I was someone of great importance that everyone’s inner spirit recognizes and they recognize me from that past life.

It started way back in high school when I had two different people at two different times, come right up to me and start a conversation of which I had no clue what they were talking about. It turns out that both of these people thought I was a girl from another local high school.

From there it’s been random sightings; people have thought I was their neighbor, their flatmate, someone from back home, someone they recognized from TV, someone they used to work with. On the ship, the mistaken identities become more frequent, and I’m not sure why that happens. But about once a cruise someone will tell me they know me but they don’t know from where. I’m going to start telling them I’m Cleopatra and leave it at that.

The Real Deal Behind D&D

October 24, 2009 in Personal, Story Telling, Writing

http://geeksdreamgirl.com/images/goat.jpgFor over a year now I have been living in other people’s spaces. Spaces that are devoid of my own personal things. I have with me some basics; clothing, computer, royal blue Snuggie and everything else, is somebody else’s stuff.

Its amazing what you learn by living in someone else’s space. Not only about them, but about yourself too.

In 2008 Rance and I had to move out of our apartment six weeks before the start of a contract job working on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean.

With nowhere to go we made plans to sell off a great deal of our belongings, and put the rest of our stuff in storage. We talked about the idea of traveling for six weeks, which would have us spend money we were trying to save, or the possibility of going back to Portland, OR and spend that with our parents. Which had us both breaking out into a cold sweat.

And then thankfully our dear friend Rene came to our rescue. He offered us his guest room/office in his  hip, cool condo for six weeks, rent-free while we waited for our contract with Second City to start.

Rance is in heaven. Not only because Rene is a great guy, he’s also a gaming geek. His condo is decked out with every electronic doo-dad a gamer dreams of owning. Huge flat-screen TV. stereo surround sound, Blue Ray DVD, Xbox, Wii, Rock Band with multiple instrument upgrades, and EVERY Xbox game Rance has ever wanted to play at his fingertips.

So this morning after Rene gets up early and leaves to go to his job that affords him all these wonderful toys. Rance gets up puts on his gaming sweats and sits on the couch to spend hours shooting snipers, fighting demons or playing electronic Uno.

Here’s the deal, if you have surround sound, you lose all sense of how loud and agitating the sound of gun-fire and a running footsteps and people dying can sound when you’re not involved in those activities.

To try and escape, I create a little corner in Rene’s guest room to read or work on my computer. Please note that “work on my computer” actually means check Facebook statuses regularly and search for reruns of Little People Big World on YouTube. We all have our coping mechanisms.

It’s in this room that my eyes are opened to a whole new world. There are multiple bookshelves filled to the brim with books like: “Lando Calrissian and the Starcave of ThonBoka”, “Star Wars Galaxies: The Ruins of Dantooine” “The Courtship of Princess Leia”, “Boba Fett: A Practical Man”, “Dungeons & Dragons Player’s Handbook: Roleplaying Game Core Rules, 4th Edition”, “Dungeon Master’s Guide: Core Rulebook II”, and “Tuesday’s with Morrie”.

I am clearly in a strange, new world.

What helps to get over any judgment I may have about all of this is that Rene is a really interesting, multi-faceted guy. He’s got an IT job he’s good at, he was in the air force, he skydives, he performs with and produces some of the best improv in the city, he loves to travel, his condo not only has the best electronics but he has great taste in art which is evident in his décor, and he would give you the shirt of his back if you needed it. So knowing all these other sides to this complex man help me to reconcile the library of geekdom.

And if I am to be completely truthful, I’ve always had a thing for geeks. Not that I want to live in their world of wizardry and make-believe, but even in high school I believed that it was the geeks who would ultimately have the last laugh and become the successes of our graduating class. I am also drawn to the kind of people geeks usually are: kind hearted, thoughtful, intelligent. They play enough games for entertainment that they don’t usually spend a lot of time playing them in their relationships. It’s when they get together and start talking about their passion for the game that I lose interest. I’m a realist and have always preferred dealing with actuality than fantasy.

Rance takes a break from playing Halo and I come out of the bedroom to the welcoming silence to make lunch and talk about what our respective mornings have been like, which lasts all of about 30 seconds. When Rance drops the bomb.

“Hey, some guys are going to come over tonight to play D & D”

“D & D, Dungeons and Dragons, you’re going to play Dungeons and Dragons here?”
I feel an undertow of anxiousness begin to build. I don’t have anywhere to go tonight. In fact I need to stay home and finish writing a piece I am working on.

“Why do you have to play it here?”

“Rene’s the Dungeon Master and he’s gathering everyone.”

Dungeon and Dragon’s here in this house, while I’m here. My breathing shallows. I’ve never had one ounce of desire to take part in a D & D game. In my conservative suburban upbringing, if D & D was mentioned it was quickly followed up by words like dark, sinister, evil a disturbing game played by troubled kids.

For me it conjures up images of glassy-eye guys, in dark basements, role playing with swords and eating babies. I mean there’s a dungeon master, and spells and dwarfs all of this points to something terrible.

I knew Rance had played D & D when he was younger I just really wanted to believe he had no interest in that sort of stuff now as a grown man with limited responsibilities.

“Do you have the right clothes, don’t you need a cape or something?” I asked in a desperate attempt to abort the event.

Rance burst out laughing, “A cape? What would I need a cape for?”

“I don’t know, isn’t that what you do? Fight each other with swords and twirl around in a cape while casting spells?

Rance doubles over in laughter and I join in reluctantly. I am sure at least some of my assumptions are based in fact. Why else would my parents and the rest of the Christian right be so up in arms over this game.? Clearly they had to know something.

So as the afternoon wore on, my anxiety grew. Rance discussed setup plans with Rene over the phone. Move the table, arrange the furniture, gather the snacks, darken the room, light the candles, assemble the torture devices, slaughter the goats. Yes, I had walked out of the room when the phone call started but I knew the plans they were making.

Rene gets home and the energy in the condo ignites. As Dungeon Master he clearly has a very important role and I watch him from my vantage point of the guest bedroom/office. He rushes into the room with an evil glint in his eye and a  lust for blood, grabs a few aforementioned D & D books. The demonic powers are about to appear.

And then the first D & D gamers arrive. I stand in the hallway to get a good look and hopefully enough details of the evil-doers in case some serious shit goes down. In my mind they’ll be dark, gothic looking guys, wearing dark hooded cloaks to cover their tender pale flesh. So imagine my surprise when Neal one of the nicest, dare I say bubbly guys you’ll ever want to meet, walks in.

“Hey Deanna, it’s good to see you, you gonna play?”

“Uh, no”, I reply as I shuffle back to the guest bedroom. Trying to hide my confusion as my brain computes what I’m seeing with what I know is going to happen once the game begins. Neal’s here? I never would have taken him for one of those kind of guys.

Quickly the remaining players all show up and they toss around a light-hearted banter that seeps through the closed door to my room. And then I hear it, a sound that makes me tilt my head like a cocker spaniel trying to figure out his owner’s command. Wait, there it is again.…a woman’s voice. A woman? This does not fit into any imagery I’ve ever conjured of a D & D game. Does she play the role of some sort of token wench? Is she a virgin to be sacrificed? Is she supplying the baby? I come out of the room once again to say “Hi” and let them all know I’m in the spare bedroom. I’m hoping with the knowledge of me being in the house they’ll keep the evil down to a minimum.

What I see stops me in my tracks. I look into that room and am completely confounded. These are all people I know, and moreover I like them all! And the woman’s voice I had heard is the girlfriend of one of the guys now gathered around the table. The lights aren’t low, there are no candles, no torture devices, no goats. In fact if anything can be said they’ve got too many lights on, let’s save the earth people. There’s pretzels, chips and sodas and beers. They’re all laughing and clearly having a great time.

Dungeon Master Rene sits at the head of the table with a pile of books next to him. Now opened these books read more like technical manuals and how-to-references rather than evil scripture of destruction.

The best part though is that instead of whips, and weapons of torture, each of the players has in front of them what looks like a job application and grocery list. Dungeons and Dragons is a game of filling out forms!

And that’s when I lose it with laughter. All these years I really thought D & D was a dark and sinister game and in reality people who play are getting practiced and skilled at filling out a sheet that resembles a form 1040A.

So, for anyone out there who has children and you’re worrying because they play that disturbing game D & D you can stop. Geeks aren’t evil, or sinister or dark they’re just in training to become our future highly successful tax accountants.

Never Pay For Electrocution

August 28, 2009 in Personal, Story Telling, Writing

I’ve never been afraid to experiment with my hair. It’s been brown, red, auburn, blonde and by horrible mistake jet black. It’s been long, short, permed, straightened, bobbed, shagged, and mulleted. With every experiment that didn’t come out exactly as I had planned I would mutter, “Well, it’ll grow out.”

In the seventh grade I wanted my hair to look like Lori Dunlaps’s. She had feathered bangs that softly framed her beautiful face and the back of her hair had a really cool spiral perm, perfectly coiffed with just the right amount of crunchy, sticky hair gel. She was a year older than I was with a beautiful singing voice and a reputation of someone who the choir director secretly wanted to bone.

I begged my mom to take me to the Montgomery Ward Salon to give me that same look. Not realizing that Lori’s look was actually something she was growing out and her bangs had grown out first.

Tammi, the young, inexperienced hair dresser tried to talk me out of my plan of perming just the back half of my hair. But I wasn’t having any of it. I knew the picture in my head would translate if she would just put those perm rods in my hair and let me bake.

Tammi, was tentative in her perm rod rolling abilities. She also kept shaking her head while she was putting the rods in and saying things like “I don’t think this is going to work out, I’ve never permed just half a head before.”

When all the rods were in she asked if I wanted the new electric perm they were offering. It cost $10 dollars extra but it would cut the processing time in half. Mom had departed to look through all the Gloria Vanderbilt petite clothes in Montgomery Wards so I made the bold decision to say yes and assume that Mom would hand over the extra cash once she saw how cool my new head of hair was.

Each individual rod was now given the addition of a small heated clip making my head feel an extra 20 lbs heavier and appear to be some sort of crazy science experiment. But I didn’t care I was going to have awesome hair in half the time.

After 18 minutes the bell signifying my processing time rang just in time, as I had sat there and quietly suffered as my scalp, a virgin to the electric perm, had sizzled and blistered.

One by one the clips were taken out and then the sweet relief as the rods were dumped into the sink and cool water poured over my head.

“Uh, oh. Looks like you got some owies. That sometimes happens with this perm process.” Tammi dryly commented.

“Got some owies?” ”It sometimes happens?” come on Tammi you could have been a little more forth coming with that information before electrocuting me.

As she sat me up to face the mirror, still towel drying my tender head. I realized I had made a huge tactical error. I had not taken into consideration the fact that my current hair cut was a shag cut, with very short layers at the top. And this perm has now effectively stood those layers up on end giving them a slight bend at the end. The rest of my permed hair poofed out into a nice cotton ball effect. I look like a half blown dandelion.

My mom’s response when she returned with an armful of polyester pants from the GV collections was “Oh, Dee what have you done to yourself.” She laughed about the extra $10 dollars I spent to fry my head, took me home and put some much needed ointment on my blisters.

I still remember the stunned look on my friends faces as I showed up to school the following Monday and the echoes of laughter that quickly followed.

“Don’t worry” I said, “It’ll grow out.”

Firsts

August 17, 2009 in Personal, Writing

Ricky was the first boy who ever French kissed me. We were at the Rosemoreland movie theaters and I was 12 years old. In the middle of the movie he put his arm around me and quickly leaned over and stuck his tongue in my mouth. I pulled back, horrified, slapped him across the face and stormed out of the theater. It was the next day when upon retelling this story to my friend Renee I was informed that what Ricky had done was perfectly normal in the world of kissing. I was still grossed out.

The first time I ever drove a car I was 13 years old. My mother took extremely long showers and I snuck the car keys out of her purse and drove her Ford Fairmont around the block. I continued doing this every time she took a shower until I got my learners permit. I don’t think she ever found out.

The first foreign country I ever visited was Haiti. My dad thought it would be an ideal vacation spot. My mom got malaria.

My first performance was in the title character of Mrs. Puddleduck’s Revenge. Looking back I can see she was a spiteful old duck who clearly had parenting issues.

My first serious boyfriend got me a Cabbage Kid for Christmas. He created this whole elaborate adoption ceremony culminating in the signing of the adoption papers. I broke up with him the next day.

I Am A Cow

August 14, 2009 in Performance, Personal, Writing

Oh. My. God!! I am 38 years old and I am a cow. Not in the body conscience sense. Not in the way some women claim, when they’re actually fishing for a compliment. No, I’m dressed head to toe in cheap imitation fur.

But it appears that I’m a bit confused; I have horns, a cowbell, and what look like cat teats. I am apparently a new breed of animal called a bullcat. Well, Happy Easter everybody!

The worst part is my face is not covered in the slightest. There is nothing to hide behind. The costume covers absolutely everything except the shame and embarrassment exuding from my face.

It’s 8am, I’ve just driven 45 minutes in bitter cold Chicago April weather to the charming village of Schaumberg. I’m waiting with Farmer John and the Easter Bunny in a makeshift greenroom for our start time; the moment we’ll walk out onto the stage, greet our screaming fans and rock the uptight Chicago theater scene to its core. Except this theater is in truth a small tired conference room tucked in the back of Marshall Field’s second floor; past over priced shoes, past cosmetics and perfumes, past the junior section and children’s clothing, past young men’s, and just beyond a rack of Warner Bras and Bali underwear.

The screaming fans are in fact screaming, but that’s because they’re tired little bundles that have been dragged here by their parents to eat breakfast with the Easter Bunny. And there are only a few uptight fans, for the most part they’re overworked parents who are just trying to make memories for their kids in they’re already over-stimulated little lives.

“Here’s your breakfast” says Chip, the perky restaurant manager for Marshall Field’s Woodfield Mall, as he plops down three plates of cold waffle sticks, powdered reconstituted eggs and charred bacon. “The kids’ll be ready for you in just a few, Clara” As he heads out the door with that little smirk that says I’m glad it’s you and not me.

You little prick Chip, I could just twist your happy little neck right off. A year ago I was meeting with Sr. VP’s and IT consultants making decisions with million dollar consequences as an IT Project Manager. I had a corner cubicle with a magnificent view of Mt. Hood overlooking the Willamette River in Portland, OR. I was making a fantastic income on a four day work week; being wined and dined by potential consulting candidates. The Company I worked for profiled me in the company magazine as a “person who gets things done.” Don’t fucking mess with me Chip, I will take you out.

“You look adorable when you’ve got mad cow disease,” says Farmer John. I want to punch him but I won’t because he’s one of the main reasons I’m here in this hellish breakroom. Farmer John, aka Rance is my fiancé. He more than anyone understands the leap I’ve made to give up a secure job, my home and the only state in which I can remember living to come to Chicago to pursue my dream.

My dream. Is this it? Is this what makes up my dream? I am getting paid to act, but somehow I thought it would be different. I thought there would be brilliant scripts, beautiful lighting, symphonic music, huge theaters with packed houses. I thought there would be hours of discussing character motivation, dissecting meaning behind each well thought out word from the finest of playwrights. I thought there would be velour curtains, and middle-aged ushers in maroon blazers. I thought my face would be on the cover of Playbill. I did not ever think I would be Clara the Cow, not once.

Chip pops his fruit striped shirted torso in the door , “You guys have got to get out there, the kids are getting restless and we don’t have breakfast ready yet.”

Better put your game face on Clara you’re about to lose some self esteem. At least the Easter Bunny is fully covered; no one would ever know that underneath is a charming, hungover, sweaty mess of a comedian. If parents could see what was really under that bunny suit I’m positive no parent would let their child sit on the Easter Bunny’s lap.

Farmer John and I exchange knowing glances. At this point in our relationship we can read each other’s minds. At least this will be a great story when we sit down with James Lipton on the Actor’s Studio.

We are not expecting what happens next. A giant white bunny is like Michael Jackson for four year olds. Kids are either extremely excited about seeing the Easter Bunny or completely freaked out. I for one would be in the camp of the freaked out. One look at those dead-like mesh eyes that hide any kind of soul and I would be out the door. And that smile is always creepily perfect like a charming Ted Bundy. Farmer John and I quickly realize our job is to run interference for the Bunny. It’s hard to maneuver in that huge suit and kids either want to run screaming like a banshee or feel around as if they’re future urologists.

Farmer John and I lead Bunny around the tables to say “Hi” get pictures and ask them if they want anything from the Easter Bunny.

“I want to get a PS2!”

“I want new clothes!”

“I want a cell phone!”

“A cell phone? You’re only 7 years old who are you going to call on your cell phone?”
“I dunno.”

And that’s when we turned to see Jacob sitting with his mom and dad.

“Hi there, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Jacob”

Jacob had that twinkle in his eyes that tell you there’s something wonderful going on in his brain. That he’s going to grow up and be someone special. And hopefully he’ll make something wonderful of his life and make those around him happy.

“…Mommy I don’t think that’s a real cow. I think that’s just a lady in a costume.”

Or maybe he’ll just be that asshole that tells you you’re crazy for quitting your job to become an actor.

Not So Charming

August 12, 2009 in Personal, Story Telling, Writing

➢ In any dining situation, there is a 98% chance that I will step away from the table with a new food stain on my lap, chest or sleeve.

➢ Once while sitting in an audience I shouted “find your light” to an actor on stage because he was delivering his lines in the shadows.

➢ I have walked into a room full of mid-level banking executives with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose and no underwear underneath.

So it might come as a bit of a shock to you that I am a graduate of charm school. And not just any charm school, Wendy Ward Charm school ran by our local Montgomery Wards. I’ll let that sink in a moment.

Now my mother thought charm school might instill some lady like behavior in her coming of age daughter and I was willing to suffer through the charm sections to get to the Wendy Ward Pacesetters which was only available to charm graduates.

The Pacesetter classes are loosely termed “model preparation classes” and teaches how to apply make-up, how to work the runway and at graduation I’ll get the opportunity to spend 45 whole minutes standing completely still on a platform in the misses section wearing a peach polyester pantsuit, try my best to convince customer’s that I am an actual mannequin.

But first I have to suffer through the charm sections where I’ve already learned that a gentleman should lead a lady down the stairs and follow her up to catch her in case she falls; that it’s proper if not impossible to enter and exit a vehicle with your knees never separating, and that it’s okay to point your finger at an object but never a person.

Charm school starts promptly at 5:30pm every Wednesday and punctuality is expected. Today, all of that goes out the window, when I spend an hour after school flirting with Randy the after school janitor, and before I know it, it is 4:30 and I only have 28 minutes to make it home, change clothes and make it to the 4:58 bus.

After running seven blocks, I arrive home a red, hot, sweaty mess. And I have no time to cool off. As students of Wendy Ward Charm School we are required to wear either a dress, or skirt and blouse, pantyhose, and pumps.

And so, the search begins; the chaos of my parents impending divorce is reflected by the mess in my room; clothes are thrown everywhere, along with shoes, homework and other miscellaneous 13 year old necessities.

While it is an overwhelming site for the uninitiated, I have a good sense of where everything is and what pile of clothes are clean and what is not. My go-to outfit is a brown tweed fitted skirt, and polyester ivory blouse with lace at the collar. I like it because it looks like something Blair Warner from “Facts of Life” would wear. The skirt is sitting right on top of the clean pile of clothes, pantyhose are found underneath my bed and my ivory top is wrinkled up behind my door. There’s no time to iron. I throw it on, check the mirror and head out the door. It’s now a four-block sprint to the bus stop.

The Portland Tri-Met bus, which drops-off right at Mall 205 where Montgomery Wards is a flagship store, pulls up just as I arrive to the stop. I get on and pay my fare, and I notice there’s only one other person on the bus. An older man who appears disheveled and dirty. His unkempt hair and toothless grin are what I notice first. It’s his smell however that hits me second.

He’s sitting near the front and as soon as the doors on the bus close behind me I can smell his foul odor filling the interior. He smells like a cat box used by a hundred cats.

I find the furthest seat away from him and immediately open a window for fresh air. I keep my fingers crossed that he’ll get off the bus soon. The smell is over powering.
About five minutes into my ride, my prayers are answered and he exits..

Hold on a minute. The stench of cat box is still on the bus, it’s still with me, and it still reeks. That’s when I realize…I am the source of this musty, sour, cat piss.
I look over my clothes, I don’t see a stain but clearly I’m the carrier. One of my mom’s five cats has used my bedroom as her personal catbox and I’m on the 185 bus to charm school.

At the age of 13 one thing is certain analytical skills have not yet been refined. Which is why I continue on towards Wendy Ward, I’m dumb enough to think that even though I can smell myself no one else will.

But I do want to give myself a little insurance, so when I’m dropped off at the doors of Montgomery Ward, I head straight for the perfume counter. I know exactly what will hide my scent: Vanderbilt perfume. I know this because when my grandmother uses it she doesn’t smell as old. Today is not the day to dab a little on my wrists, I need a full on assault. I find the tester bottle and proceed to shower myself in spray mists, until the older woman behind the counter tells me to put – the – bottle – down.

If a were a perfumer I would say that I was now wearing a strong backnote of cat urine, with a heavily infused top note of grandma perfume, and a musky note of teen sweat.

And so I head up the escalators to the floor where furniture and appliances are sold, to a back door that houses the Wendy Ward Charm School. Secretly, I always feel a little privileged going into the Wendy Ward office. There’s no outside signage, and you have to go through the door that says employees only. At 13 I get a little excited to see the corkboard with employee announcements, OSHA standards and store holiday schedules.

The door to Wendy Wards is open and I walk in to see several of the girls already sitting ready to go, the room is filled with teen laughter.

“Hey Deanna, come sit here…have I got news for you!”

Heidi is pointing to the seat that’s right in the middle, front and center. It’s not a huge room there are three rows of chairs. I thought I could just come in and find a seat in the back but Heidi wasn’t going to have any of it.

“Come on, before class starts.”

The slow death march begins. As I settle in my seat, the tone of the room becomes suddenly different. All of the laughter stops, replaced by quiet whispering.

Tammy who is sitting to my right, gets up and says something about needing to go to the bathroom, Julie joins her. One after another, after another each of the girls finds an excuse to leave the room, even Heidi who has big news, now needs water before class starts.

As I sit there in the room all by myself I catch my reflection in the makeup mirrors lining the room and see on my right shoulder the top of what turns out to be a foot long stain that runs down the entire back of my blouse.

It’s confirmed, not only do I know, but I know they know and I know they know I know. And when Ms. Morlan our beloved charm instructor ushers the girls in for class no one says a word to me for the next two hours.

I have no idea what was taught that day, as I sat in charm school with cat piss on my blouse. I was mortified and shamed knowing I was making the girls around me miserable. But I did learn a few things; Vanderbilt perfume only hides old people smell not cat urine, if you think you stink you’re probably right, and sometimes it’s the embarrassing times in our lives that make us the most charming.

Good-byes Suck

February 21, 2009 in Personal, Ship Life

January 25, 2009

Working on a cruise ship provides a lot of good-byes. Goodbye to land life, family, friends, cable TV, and Taco Bell. Goodbye to cooking your own meals, making your own bed and folding your own towels. Goodbye to driving, finding parking or de-icing your car,

But what can be more difficult is saying good-bye to the people you meet on the ship. It’s like saying goodbye to summer camp counselors when you were a kid, but it happens every few weeks.

Recently we had to say good-bye to both of our room stewards, Gerald and Jun. They were finally getting a vacation after working 9 months straight with no days off…EVER. I really liked these guys, they looked out for us and in turn we looked out for them. More than once on the incredibly and stressful NY port days, when they have to turn their rooms over in a matter of hours and were also responsible for getting everyone’s luggage to the right rooms Rance and I made sure they got food. We would go up to the garden and get a plateful of pizza or sandwiches and leave it in our room with the understanding that whenever they had a moment they could come in and eat. If we didn’t do that, they were expected to work through the day with no breaks.

In turn if there was anything we ever needed Gerald and Jun would get it for us. Gerald hooked me up with the tailor on board and he had my five pair of pants tailored to perfection in less than a day and delivered them back to my room free of charge. (Though I did tip him handsomely.) Gerald also commandeered a soft, downy penthouse pillow for me after I complained of my lack of sleep on the cardboard pillows that are standard in the hovel we stay in. –

At Christmas time Rance and I gave Gerald and Jun Christmas presents and Gerald got teary-eyed saying it’s the first Christmas he had been away from his family and how much our thoughtfulness meant to him. Which of course got me teary eyed and we both stood in the hallway with tears in our eyes and hugged.

The great thing about these good-byes is that now there are hellos. Like a few weeks ago when Rance and I got to see our friends from production cast on the Jewel who all happened to be in NY at the same time. And then a few weeks later we got to see our friend Christopher and spend the day with him. And then just this week we got to see our friends Roman and Sasha who are currently on The Dawn, which was parked right next to us in Tortola.

I get to chat with friends from all over the world on Facebook; from Serbia, Belarus, Australia, Hungary, Canada, The Philippines and even Nashville TN. And sometimes I’m even surprised by a face that I said good-bye to a year ago on the Jewel that is now suddenly with me again here on this ship.

So I’ve learned that the hardest good-byes are required before you can have the best of hellos.