Mood Indigo (or purple, or red, or...)

Mr. Nice Guy lives in an expensive high rise full of old people and middle eastern kids. Laundry facilities are in the basement, and there are security cams everywhere and lots of comings and goings, so I never imagined this happening; Someone dug through the dryer, MY dryer, plucked out all my pretty panties from amongst the dishtowels and bluejeans, and spirited them away. 

I have two questions: 

• How did they know I had fabulous underwear to begin with? Do I look like the type? Maybe that’s a good thing? 
• What is an old lady or 20-something boy from Dubai doing with them?! Ew, Im not sure I want to picture either scenario.

Once I was over the shock and grief, I turned my attention to getting replacements. My favorite pair was a blue number with white banding, and since I hadn't bought them, I always wondered where they came from,  so they had added mystique. They were American Apparel, and as I pondered their parentage, I suddenly remembered there was a store fairy close to my house. Pouting about the expense of a new undergarment wardrobe, I threw on some jeans—with no underwear of course—and swung on over to the AA store.  

A cute, young, obviously gay boy announced to me that he would be my service agent. My imagination went wild. My service agent? Oh really? And to what do I owe this honor? Is it because I have no underwear on? I snapped out of my fantasy and explained my situation. I wanted blue undies with binding. My personal little vixen, er service agent, sauntered towards the back of the store, and as I followed I noticed that despite working in a store surrounded by underwear, he wasn’t wearing any either. 

When I finally looked up, we were standing in front of a whole wall full of the exact underwear I wanted, in every color of the rainbow, each one glowing and pristine in a perfect little see-through pouch. I suddenly had an epiphany that would change my thinking about underwear for the rest of my life: I WILL NOW HAVE MOOD PANTIES!—Like mood rings—red for feisty, blue for serene, purple for cocky, green for money, pink for—well you know—and so on. As I stand there nekkid each morning, I can decide what color reflects my mood and have the panties to match. 

Sensing my needs, my service agent handed me a basket and I piled it high. He asked if I wanted to try them on—sound of car crash—Excuse me? Isn’t that against the law? I guess not in a store with a service boy…. Nonetheless, I declined. He seemed disappointed, and sulked while he rang me up, but I just dashed home with my entire spectrum of undies, eager to figure out which mood I would be in for dinner. 

Check out the rainbow of possibilities

Sophia Loren with meat balls

Just as you thought the travel adventures were over —they have only just begun!

I had good plane-seat juju and got a whole center row to myself. Across the aisle on one side was a large man totally decked out in one of those African tribal muumuus with fish and giraffes printed on it in bright colors. In my own non-pc mind, I named him Zulu. In front of him there seemed to be a sourish, overweight lesbian with a bad haircut who wasn't happy about something, or everything.

In stark contrast, on the other side of the aisle was a stunning French woman of a certain age who could have been Sofia Loren's sister, perfectly tailored and accessorized with lots of diamonds, an elegant scarf, and perfectly made up and coiffed. Every time I looked in her direction she was touching up her makeup. She never peed. The. Whole. Nine. Hour. Flight. 

We were served an elegant French-Moroccan lunch of lamb meatballs, sauce and couscous. There was also some kind of freaky salad of shredded unidentifiable veggies with a poached egg on top and a baguette of course, with lots of butter and for desserts,  applesauce AND crème Brulé.  It was all nice and everything, but I'm SO over couscous. I just left the land of couscous. I’m gonna get a whopper and a Dr. Pepper when I get off this plane.

As soon as we started to eat, the turbulence kicked in, and suddenly we were eating on a rollercoaster. The food slid back in forth and it became a game, trying to sip between dips and navigate food to my mouth without poking my eye out with the plastic fork. 

I looked around to assess the morale of my fellow passengers; Zulu had mixed all the food on the tray into one slop-like mixture that looked like something Linda Blair had concocted. He was busy frantically shoveling it in like it was his last meal, all except for the meatballs and some of the sauce/applesauce/cous-cousveggie glop which he decided to save for later. He asked me to stick it in the overhead compartment, which was easier for me to access. Several hours later all was calm and I was happily watching The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Suddenly, the lesbian, who had been watching some violent movie, abruptly stood up in the half-dark aisle and said, "WHAT THE FUCK?!” 

It seemed that the sauce from the meatballs, had somehow lost its top and was oozing out of the overhead, directly onto her bad haircut.  OMG it was all I could not to run and hide. Thank god she had not seen ME put the meatballs over her head, and had no one in particular to blame for the glop attack. Zulu and I stifled our laughter until she had huffed to the front of the plane, returning some time later with wet hair and an even more sour expression on her face. 

Zulu went to ask for more meatballs and returned with a sexy French boy flight attendant who cleaned out the overhead bin over the very grumpy lesbian. I was so grateful it was not in MY overhead bin with new white Prada bags. I popped a sleeping pill and awoke just in time for landing. I had seen enough drama for one flight!

En route: Tunisia to Paris to Houston to Portland

It's official; I have now traveled so much that I've memorized my passport number. The night before I left Tunis I slept well in Hotel Pasha, but now know why cars have horns; for Arabic countries, where horns are a constant all-day, all-night sound. 

Ate a great breakfast of tomato, cucumber and eggs with baguette. They do not mess around with their coffee here; one cup and you're ready to belly dance! I felt right at home having breakfast in a restaurant full of French women, but if I say 'bonjour' one more time I’m gonna scream and I still have a night in Paris to go. Checked out of the hotel and porters carried everything. The young receptionist told me, in broken English, that my hair looked nice. It should have. I worked that Tunis blow dryer for all it was worth so I could have big hair for Paris. 

On the plane I made friends with an Arabic man, and he invited me to stay with his family if I came back to Djerba. Scrunched into the small plane, bumping wildly in turbulence, he drew me a fantastic picture of a cowboy on a horse, and said, "For a souvenir, a cowboy for the cowboy." and then he laughed.

Got to paris tired, went to the luggage carousel and was the last person standing there as the conveyor beeped then stopped, the sign that delivery was finished. I freaked—Paris with no luggage! I found baggage services, where a very sweet girl calmly smiled and asked, "Are you missing a bag?" With my passport and luggage receipt in hand she made a call and my bag arrived in fifteen minutes. Apparently it had been heading to Houston without me ….

I spent the night in Paris at the Hilton which was lovely. I couldn't help thinking it must be nice to be Paris Hilton, at the Hilton, in Paris. Tried to stay up late so I would sleep on the plane the next day, but woke up at 6 a.m., showered, ran down to breakfast, made it through checkout, got to the airport and passed through security like a wiz. 

I’m getting pretty good at international traveling, and as I walked through the concourse congratulating myself on my skills, reflecting on how easy and painless it had all been and how sweet and helpful people were, I suddenly came face-to-face with duty-free heaven; Prada!, Chanel!, Cartier!, Van Cleef and Arpels! Without warning—I swear—I was sucked in to the Prada store, and a voice whispered in my ear, "You should treat yourself to something niiiice…." A salesgirl miraculously appeared, and in broken English, complimented me on my jacket, a quilted one from Zara. "It is Chanel?" This girl was gooood! Buying a gift for someone? Wife? Self? Yes? I swear she said, "Fabulous!" and trotted me right over to the men’s section. Five minutes later I was the owner of a new belt and a pair of flip flops—yes Prada flip flops!  

Waiting for one more flight, I made a new friend from San Francisco, Tammy, a Japanese lady, and we shared trip stories for a few, and then she ran off to her gate. I am homesick. I miss my bed and my Nigel, and I am looking forward to the summer at home with my friends, and not having all my stuff in one suitcase like a hobo. Life is good, the sun is shining in Paris, and people really are wonderful the world over.

Tuna in Tunis, Tunisia (say it 10 times fast...)

In Tunisia ,,,,,rode a camel on the beach today. His name? Omar Sharif! His owner is Ramsey, a Muslim hot daddy. Ate fresh-caught tuna, yes, Tuna in Tunisia, and tons of local olives. Taught the Muslim men how to say okey-dokey. Having an amazing trip but miss all my friends and my pup, and yes taking lots of photos that I'll post SOON!

Just Visiting!

Day two of my trip, visiting my wonderful sister and her family in Houston.

Their neighborhood bears a striking resemblance to a place called Stepford; 

The houses are white.

The SUVs (is there anything else?) are white.

The people are white.

I got here Wednesday and someone came to blow the leaves off their driveway. Now it's Friday and they've come again. Wouldn't want those pesky leaves to accumulate now, would we?

In this community, called Champion's Forest;

The children are perfect.

The yards are perfect.

The hair is perfect.

The boobs are perfect.

Uncle Nice Guy is playing gay nanny to his two adorable nieces. He drives the white Texas Tahoe that gets what?, eight miles to the gallon?, to pick them up at soccer practice. To his 44-year-old brain it's all just so confusing; private school carpool, baton twirling camp, the whole suburban scene, but they're great kids.

Yesterday one of the girls came home traumatized because her friend's mom looked 'all horrible and weird.' My sister did some discreet asking around, to discover that the woman, still in her forties, had merely had an extreme facelift. No, it wasn't the swelling and bruising that scared my niece—that had already receded—it was the end product. Oh well...

Tonight, while sister and her husband have a date night, my nieces and I have big plans; I'll teach them to bake chocolate chip cookies and we'll settle in to watch Beverly Hills Chihuahua. They're too young for The Stepford Wives. 

Update: Project Runway has been substituted. Nothing like a little gay TV. Hope the neighborhood association doesn't find out. 

Unexpected events

Mr. Nice Guy is off on an exotic working vacation to Paris and Tunisia... volcano willing!
Honey, silica ash clouds are SUCH a drag. But volcanos are kinda hot...

The Ring and I

I love to travel, but recently, at the airport and on the plane I kept noticing everyone's wedding rings, which kinda made me sad. I have several rings from past relationships, and I remember the pride of wearing one; that little symbol that says; 'Someone values and adores me—or better yet—puts up with me.'

Just as I was getting to the edge of weepy, I pulled myself together, thinking, 'No, rings are just a stupid symbol!,' but that didn't make me feel better for long, so I started to ponder what I could do about the rang thang. My ideas were as varied as my moods, from sincere to wickedly playful, and back again.

I could pull out one of my old rings and wear it. They are all beautiful, and rich with the meaning and memories of someone special who gave them to me. But those bonds are broken now.

My inner Scarlett O'Hara whispered in my ear; instead of wearing those old rings Honey, you're gonna melt them down, have a tiara made from them and wear it to parties, kinda like your own set of antlers or hunting trophy.

I could melt them down into a little stautette, with a jeweled collar and leash. Kinda like an Oscar but  it will be a 'Mister' for best supporting husband in a dramatic role. Then I can give a speech and thank the academy of exs for all brutal lessons about life and love they have given me. OK, a bit bitter...

My brain was spinning. I could sell the lot on ebay, then buy my own, more gorgeous than the rest, and wear it proudly until someone suitable replaces it.' And if anyone says, 'Nice ring! You're so lucky to be loved.' the answer will be, "Yes, I am!" meaning that I still want to hear wedding bells, but until then I will share my abundance of love with friends and family, and first and foremost, with myself.

Meanwhile, I bought myself a string of fresh-water pearls, each born of agitation, imperfect but glowing, a lovely reminder of the beauty of life and love.

Roller Coaster

Life is supposed to be like a rollercoaster, sometimes you scream and hold on for dear life, sometimes you put your hands up, but the best way to ride is open your eyes, lean into the curbs and smile when you go by the camera.

One week up, one week down; it's just part of being human. I'm so glad I chant. I am much more compassionate to my fellow humans, and less affected by life's hardships and drama.

cheers 

Mood Indigo

Usually Mr. Nice guy is a ball of energy, and as optimistic as a dog sitting expectantly at the cookie jar, but today I must admit to being a bit on the blue end of the spectrum. So nice of Portland to mirror my mood by cooking up a gloomy-gus-of-a-day, with stormy skies and constant drizzle.

I've been in this town for exactly one year now, and although I've made some great friends and love it here, it doesn't quite feel like home yet. And then I realized that it's also just a year since my father died unexpectedly. No wonder the blue funk is sitting on my head!

I'll get up and out, and this will pass, but meanwhile, if you're willing, it would be so nice to hear a few words from anyone passing by my little cyber-neighborhood. Leaving a little comment would really go a long way towards cheering me up.

The Invisible Man

Yesterday I got up early, slugged down a stiff cup of java and went into a housework tizzy. Ripping the sheets off the bed, I piled them into the giant rolling trash can I use as a hamper, plopped my trusty dog on top, and began the trek 18 floors down to the basement laundry room.

My ill-considered outfit consisted of a do-rag chapeau, a wrinkled pink tee-shirt and some sweats. We arrived without incident, I loaded the washers and dashed for the elevator, hoping it would magically float directly to my floor uninterrupted, but noooo. My personal demons had a special surprise in store.

We got as far as the first floor and there was a little 'ding.' The doors opened, and there he was; a stunningly handsome vision of loveliness, a god just down from Olympus for the day. And there I was, in excruciating contrast; Cinderfella before his magic transformation, in his do-rag and sweats. And did I mention the rumpled pink tee-shirt?

I wanted to run. I wanted an escape hatch to open. He pushed 16 which was going to make for a long ride. I couldn't look at him so I stared at the buttons, wishing there was a Willy Wonka button that would take us on a wild ride up, over, down and around, and he and I would end up trapped and naked in a heap with the Pomeranian and the trash can...

No such luck. My mind was racing. I remembered those childhood wishes for superpowers, and thought how great it would be to have the power of invisibility at my fingertips for just such occasions, or even better, a fairy godfather to go 'poof' with her wand and transform the tee-shirt into a sparkling ballgown, my do-rag into a french twist, all reflecting my true inner beauty. Until that magic day, I have vowed to get dressed to do laundry, just in case my prince shows up with a glass slipper.