Read my expression

Yesterday I had a meeting with one of our executives that was rough. I mean rough. We went round and round about some things, I almost cried, and I swear to God I needed a hug when it was over. As I was leaving his office, there was a flock of people waiting to get in to see him. When we stepped out, one of the other execs said, “Hell, Liz must have worn you out man, you look like crap!” I immediately walked over to one of my favorite executives and said, “Can I hug you?” I did and he was very, very bewildered.

Today, one of the managers that had been waiting as I emerged from the office came by my desk and said, “I’m worried about you.”

“WHY?” I asked.

He said, “Because yesterday when you came walking out of that office you looked so different. And then you walked over to C and hugged him. That’s not like you.”

I said, “I know. The meeting I was in was very strenuous.”

He said, “I thought you may have resigned. You really looked awful- like you had either just quit or like you had just had sex.”

I said, “Do women you know usually look like they’ve just quit their jobs after having sex with you?”

He said, “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

That made my day.image

Philippine Travel Log 5

Beach, Beach and more Beach

Well, I have been very lax in my updating duties, but I am happy to see Liz has really stepped up the pace to give you guys something to read. 

I believe the last I spoke to you it was after the Great Manila Flood, and we had just arrived in Boracay.

So, we arrived in Boracay.  It is a miserable island.  Sun, beaches, women, beer....It was a dreadful combination that caused me to forget all about the blog even though our accommodations had a hideously slow, but adequate computer connection.

I was going to post pics for your enjoyment, so you could see just how awful it is for me to have to lounge around on the beach surrounded by beautiful women and having people bring me fruity shakes and/or beer with a snap of my finger.  Oh, and there was SCUBA diving as well.

Once again the incredibly slow internet connection I am using makes it difficult to send an email, much less upload photos.  So, you will just have to take my word for it when I say that I am frowning all the time and utterly miserable.  So miserable I might just stay here to force myself to accept a little more humility in my life.

I have digressed.

On Boracay, we had a kick ass beach bungalow.  It had a nice lush garden surrounding it and a large wooden deck to sit upon in the shade.  It was about fifty yards to the bar and only about fifty yards past there to the ocean. 

The entire beach is wall to wall with small restaurants, guest houses and bars.  We were bare foot for almost the entire week. 

The beach was also littered with “authorized” vendors attempting to sell watches and/or island-hopping boat trips.  You could tell they were authorized because they all had on matching vests that said so.  The sales pitch was the same every few feet, “Mistah...you want watch?  Very nice...Rolex.  Mistah...you want boat ride? Island hopping? Jet Ski?” About every fifth one would add a little extra to the end of his spiel, but it was just as you were almost out of ear shot and in a couple of octaves lower, in a sly off-hand voice, “Ganjaaaaaa?” When you looked back he would look around and then repeat it even more on the sly, “Gaaanjaaaa?” Luckily I personally don’t enjoy smoking weed, otherwise we might be sitting in a small Filipino jail right now; albeit it would probably have a sand floor and incredible views, that is not really where I want to spend my vacation.

Manius took this opportunity to get his SCUBA certification so Chad and myself were forced to lounge around extra hard while he took tests and performed SCUBA skills.  We did join him on his certification dives and it was some pretty good visibility and sea life.  We ran across a nice size sea turtle that I swear I got a few pictures of, but once again, unable to show you at this time.  Manius’ dive instructor might very well be the horniest dive master ever.  We were taking pictures of the fish and coral and he would be swimming over to other dive groups and taking pictures of the females in their groups.  I did not think it was possible to really creep out a woman under water while diving, but I stand corrected.  It is impressive how much body language can convey while trying to escape an underwater pervert.

We finally tore our selves away from Boracay, realizing that we had spent more time than intended there.  We caught a poorly planned flight to the island of Cebu, but once there realized it was going to take too much time to see the island and decided to leave immediately and fly to the island of Palawan.  From there the idea was to catch a quick flight to Jakarta, Indonesia, because our Philippine Visa would be running out before the end of our trip and we had to leave the country to reenter for a new Visa. 

Who soon found out that there are no such things as “quick flights” in the Philippines.  We were stuck in Cebu for two days, flew to Palawan and were informed we missed the last flight to El Nido (the beach town at the Northern Part of the Island), the next flight will not leave for four days, but we could take a bus there (12 hours) or a boat (18 hours).  We opted to head inland via private van for a few hours and check out an underground river; in a town called Sabang.

Sabang was awesome, but remote.  The guest house we found only had electricity from six pm until ten pm, and none of the showers worked.  The plus side was that it’s right on the beach and it only cost us about $20 a night for all three of us. 

We were pretty much the only Westerners around for the first night so the security guard took us down the beach to a local Karaoke bar.  We had been sitting around on the deck for about four hours drinking beer, gin and tonics and a hideous, local moonshine they kept calling coconut wine.  The coconut wine was free, for obvious reasons.  By the time the Karaoke bar was brought up it sounded brilliant.  I would have sang Celine Dion songs in front of 60,000 people by that point. 

The Karaoke bar was packed with locals and even though they had a list of songs to choose from, they just kind of handed the mic around and you sang whatever song happened to come up next.  Chad sang something, I don’t really remember what it was, but it got a lot of applause.  The security guard then sang a local song to everyone’s delight, but then the microphone was moved along to another table.  After that there was some walking, some stumbling, and then we woke up in our cabin and it was morning.  I think we might have chased a pig along the beach, but it might have been a dog, or a small child.  Either way it squealed a lot.

We would wake up miserable the next morning and hike 5km to the underground river.  But, that is for the next post.

If He Isn’t Happy, The Rest of Us are Fucked

I know that you can’t really “know” a celebrity unless you know that celebrity. But some celebs seem at least half way normal and like the kind of folks you’d invite over for drinks and cards. Owen Wilson is one such celebrity. He’s charming in interviews, his imperfect nose is perfect, and he’s in the kind of movies that I love- meaningless, funny, and often irreverent.

image

I hate to hear of his suicide attempt.

I would imagine that Owen Wilson has a pretty good life. He’s not actually hounded by the paparazzo, he’s loaded, he’s friends with some of the funniest comedians of his generation, and he’s loaded. Did I mention he’s loaded? I know money doesn’t buy happiness, but you only say that when you have an abundance of it. Money does buy freedom and freedom is one of the direct paths to happy. As much as I’m aware, Owen didn’t sell his soul to get a part in Meet The Parents, so I cannot digest his bitter taste toward life. Drugs? The break up with Kate Hudson? Unyielding comments about how cute Luke is?

It makes me sad when anyone feels they have to take such desperate measures. We’ve all been depressed, we’ve all gotten over it and lived to see another sunny day. What alarms me most is that this guy is someone we “know” as stable and funloving and quick-witted. When I look at the way his chips were stacked and then I look at my measly pile, I have to ask: If Owen Wilson isn’t happy with his life, why the hell should I bother getting out of bed in the morning? It just surprises me. And it leads to another more important question: what if George Clooney is next?

I am glad that I cannot imagine the agony. I only hope that Mr. Wilson finds the peace he’s looking for. And if peace is no where to be found, I know where he can at least find a piece…

Coming up soon is Diana’s 10th deathaversary. I think the tragic message in her story is that she actually became a princess. I am fully prepared to piss people off when I say this, but Lady D was insecure and crazy. I remember watching the wedding and I remember exactly where I was 10 years ago when Richard and I heard on the radio that she had been killed. Diana the princess myth was bigger than anyone, but especially someone so fragile, could handle. Her death seemed like such a loss at the time- and I’m sure there are many, especially her sons- who still feel that loss. But Diana was destined to die tragically. It was unavoidable.

But Owen Wilson? It just doesn’t seem to fit. 

Wake the Dead

Saturday:

Last night I was at my grandfather’s wake and this morning he was buried. I have noticed that my mother has marked the passing of her father-in-law by complimenting the service, my uncle by commenting on the number of people who attended the visitation, and my aunt by remarking on the flowers. My cousin said that it was sad that we only saw all of these family members when someone died. My dad seemed to be more absorbed in the loss. My brother planned logistics.

I would like to comment on the high chick that was at the visitation.

When I say “high” I mean FUCKED UP.

At the funeral home they ask the family to be there an hour before the visitation starts. When I got there she was already sitting downstairs. However, once it turned 5:00 and people were coming into the parlor, it took her at least half an hour to figure out that all of these people were not immediate family. She came stumbling in around 5:30.

You know when someone is messed up because of the tell-tell signs like slurred speech and having their eyes closed for 80% of the conversation. You can also tell because they seem immune to social hints and seem to ignore the common laws of distance. You know, all conversation is within 8 inches of your face; you back away; they fall right back into your perimeter. But the most obvious sign of wasted is the volume at which the offender speaks. Remember, my grandfather’s dead body is less than 15 feet away. Some how it seems obligatory to speak softly. On a scale of 10, most people are speaking somewhere between a 3 (soft) and a 5 (average). Joanie is most often between an 8 and a 9.

She approached my mother. I will begin each piece of the conversation with a number to indicate how loudly Joanie was speaking.

Joanie (8): Your house is always so neat and clean. I can’t organize. I need some help. Will You help me? I’ll pay you.

Mom (4): I have a friend like that. I’ve been trying to help her get her house in order since Christmas and there is still clutter everywhere.

Joanie (9): I said I’d pay you! (7): Your house is always organized. I can’t organize. I need some help.

Me (5): You should watch some of those shows on HGTV. They’re always giving tips on how to unclutter and how to organize a space.

Joanie (10): THE LAST THING I NEED IS SOMEONE ELSE TELLING ME WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE.

Mom sneaks away and leaves me there, alone, with a yelling lunatic.

Joanie (4): You know wha I do when a shows like that comes on the TVs? I give ‘em on of these (flips the bird). But I don’t cuss in public. But what I do at my own house is my own business. If I want to flip the bird at the TV I can, right? No body can tell me not too, right? I can do whatever I wanna do. (resumes bird and thrusts it into the air multiple times).

My brother approaches.

Joanie (8): Is he with you?

Me (5): That’s Justin (my brother).

Joanie (9): Holy crap. You’ve lost like 60 pounds!

Justin (5): No. I’ve lost about 15 or 20 pounds.

Joanie (9): No you haven’t. You’ve lost like 60 pounds. You have. (an angry 11): YOU HAVE.

Me (changing the subject) (5): She’s with him (I point to my sister in law).

Joanie (8): You’re with him? (points to my sister in law and to Justin). You married Justin? (head is now starting to sort of roll back)

Justin (5): -sarcastically- Naw… the two of them are married. (points to his wife and to me).

Joanie (9): Well you never know! I have nieces and nephews so I know that you can never know. I mean, nobody can tell me what I don’t know because you can never know.

Me (4): I’m going to the bathroom. (exits and has a cigarette).

_______________________________________________________________

This is only ONE of the conversations I was forced into having with Joanie that night. She lingered for hours. It was sad, yet funny, to watch her wobble through the parlor, bending to look at flowers, then spotting me and returning to my space. I hated that none of my friends were there to see this.

Here’s one other little piece of a conversation:

Joanie (4): I’ve been divorced from (my dad’s best friend) for almost a year now. Can you believe that?

Me (5): Wow. A year, huh?

Joanie (10): I said ALMOST a year!!!!

Me (3): Ok.

Joanie (9): I hate that son of a bitch but I miss him. I have to mow the yard and my mower is too big to get around the deck. The grass there is really tall.

Me (5): Well, I see some options. You could move to a house with a smaller yard or you could get a weed eater.

Joanie (8): My grief counselor told me not to make any major changes for at least a year.

Me (5): Moving would be major, but getting a weed eater isn’t really that big of a deal. Maybe you would like having the grass kept tidy around the deck? I think they’re pretty inexpensive.

Joanie (11): I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO MAKE ANY MAJOR CHANGES!

Me (3): Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom. (Another cigarette).

________________________________________________________________________________

I can’t help but see humor in situations, even those that are sad. I’ll write more, if the mood strikes, because I’d like you to hear about Joanie and her fried chicken and the service itself. If you believe that the universe is filled with cosmic waves and that you can telepathically send joy and ease suffering, please, don’t waste it on me. Send your prayers to my family. God already blessed me with a night of Joanie. I’m going to be OK.

The Artist Fromerly Known as Liz

You may not know that I have an arty streak. I’m not saying I’m good, I’m just saying I streak. Artistically. My canvases are not always traditional. For example, I consider cooking an art and knowing what Cumin is good in is similar to understanding how to play purple against orange. Decorating is an art. One can only get a way with “so much” gold in their home. Things that plug in and swirl different colors on the walls have to be used sparingly. Making “mixed tapes” is an art. You can’t go straight from Merle Haggard into AC/DC unless you’ve planned the entire flow appropriately. Fashion is an art. I pick my perfumes based on what I’m wearing. I pick what I’m wearing based on mood. It’s complicated to be me.

My friend Shanna and I recently had a real adventure in art. She’s an art major graduate, so my talent is nothing compared to her “mad skills”. We went to a Mosaic shop up the road and spent an entire afternoon creating. It was actually pretty fun, even though I had some reservations that sitting there, cutting glass and gluing, would test my patience. It didn’t- it was kind of relaxing. It would have been more relaxing with beer, but what wouldn’t? At least Shanna was there so we were able to chit chat, until the other customers came in.

The “other customers”. Ah. I don’t know why other customers have to be so annoying. They came in wearing their Methodist clothing and the entire conversation was about the children they lugged in there with them or about some Mosaicing superstar, who, fortunately, was not in the shop that day. We were not so lucky on day 2.

We went in on Sunday to grout our tiles. Superstar was there and she had all of her most recent projects in tow. How many adjectives can one use to describe a mosaiced cross? Over 80, I swear. Her groupies stood around her work, ahhing and ooohing as she describe the labor involved in making these treasures. They were good, but come on. They’re shitty mosaiced crosses. It’s not like staring into the eyes of God or anything. One of her pieces had a large turquoise broach glued in the center of it. I think one of the groupies orgasmed.

I’m glad the superstar is receiving adoration for her efforts. What I don’t approve of is her redundant use of the word therapy. If she said it once, she said it 47 times: Well, it’s my therapy! or It’s cheaper than therapy! I thought I’d need therapy after hearing those phrases so many times in one afternoon. Get some new material, bitch. The mosaicing community just got two new members and we’re a rough crowd. 

Next Page
 

Recent Comments

Subscribe to Killer Rants

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner



Add to Technorati Favorites

Archives